宏智禪師廣錄 9.518

9.518

旨還天童。前後垂三十年。寺屋幾千間。無不新者。異時長蘆雪峯。僧方盛時。各居一堂。別為四五。天童衲子既多。師以己意指授匠者。為一堂以處眾千二百人。悉皆容受。雄麗深穩。實所創見。即兩山間障海潮而田之。歲入三倍於前。凡眾所須無不畢具。此雖有為事。然他人睥睨不敢措手者。師優游其間。即日趣辨。二十七年秋九月。忽來城中。謁郡僚及素所往來者。又之越上謁帥守趙公令詪。因遍詣諸檀越家。若與之別。十月七日還山。飯客如常。八日辰巳間沐浴更衣。端坐告眾。顧侍者索筆作書。遺大慧禪師。屬以後事。又書偈曰。夢幻空花。六十七年。白鳥煙沒。秋水天連。擲筆而逝。龕留七日。顏貌如生。壽六十七。僧臘五十三。大慧夜得書。即至山中。以十四日。奉師全身。葬東谷塔。道俗送者。增山盈谷。無不涕慕。自師之逝。風雨連日。及葬開霽。事畢如初。師具大慈悲。誘接不倦。投籌入室。潛符密證者。不可勝紀。師於受施無貪。行施無厭。歲饑艱食。竭已之長。兼輟贍眾之餘。賴以全活者。亡慮數千萬人。居常施者金帛滿前。悉歸於眾。丈室蕭然。弊衣糲食。不破中飡。以終其身。每薙髮聚之。必生舍利五色。或髮貫其中。有得墮齒者。舍利生生不已。葬後人祈禱之。或得於茵蓆。或得於衣履。不常其處。寺去水遠。師鑿石為畎。子母相銜。齋厨浴室。無不周遍。官家婦人。有入寺者。欲盥手畎中。忽陀躍而出。婦人驚倒。久之乃蘇。貴人子館法堂西。酒肉自隨。或止之不從。俄而法鼓雷震墮地。貴人子惶懼而去。今有震跡存焉。一日小行者。僵仆於地言曰。我護伽藍神也。與太白神角力。可令僧眾誦呪助我。或曰。何不以告堂頭。神曰。我聞覺和尚住此十餘年矣。每至寢堂欲見之。即戰慄不能前。竟未之識也。其為文初不經意。下筆即成。中書舍人潘公良貴。請銘大用菴。親為書石。歎曰。與三祖信心銘相後先矣。師去世之五月。

an imperial decree for him to return to Tiantong. In all, nearly thirty years passed; the monastery's buildings numbered several thousand bays, and there were none that were not newly built. Formerly, at Changlu and Xuefeng, when the monks were in their prime, they each dwelled in separate halls, divided into four or five. As the patch-robed monks at Tiantong were already numerous, the Master used his own ideas to direct the artisans to make a single hall to house the assembly of one thousand two hundred people, all of whom were accommodated. Imposing, magnificent, profound, and stable, it was truly unprecedented. Furthermore, between two mountains he dammed the sea tides to make fields; the annual yield was three times that of before, and everything the assembly required was completely supplied. Although this was a mundane affair, while others looked askance and did not dare put their hands to it, the Master moved leisurely amidst it and brought it to completion forthwith. In the autumn, the ninth month of the twenty-seventh year (1157), he suddenly came into the city to visit the commandery officials and those with whom he ordinarily associated, and also went to Yue to visit the Military Commissioner, Lord Zhao Linggen, thereby visiting the homes of all the dānapatis as if parting with them. On the seventh day of the tenth month he returned to the mountain and dined with guests as usual. On the eighth day, between the hours of the Dragon and the Snake (around 7–11 a.m.), he bathed, changed his robes, sat upright, and addressed the assembly. Turning to an attendant, he asked for a brush to write a letter, which he sent to Chan Master Dahui, entrusting him with the affairs after his death. He also wrote a gāthā, saying:
'Illusory dreams, flowers in the sky,
Sixty-seven years.
A white bird disappears into the mist;
Autumn waters join the sky.'
Throwing down the brush, he passed away. The shrine remained for seven days, and his facial expression was like life. His lifespan was sixty-seven; his monastic seniority was fifty-three. Dahui received the letter at night and immediately arrived at the mountain. On the fourteenth day, he enshrined the Master's complete body and interred it in the stūpa of the Eastern Valley. Those among the monastics and laity who saw him off filled the mountains and valleys, and there were none who did not weep with longing. From the Master's passing, wind and rain continued for days; when the interment arrived, it cleared and became fair, and once the affair was finished, it was as before. The Master was endowed with great compassion and was untiring in guiding and receiving people. Those who cast lots and entered his room, tacitly tallying and secretly realizing, cannot be counted. The Master had no greed in receiving alms, and no weariness in practicing giving. In years of famine and scarcity of food, he exhausted his own resources and also gave up what was left over from sustaining the assembly; those who relied on this to be preserved and kept alive numbered roughly in the tens of millions. Normally, the gold and silk given by donors filled the space before him, and he gave it all to the assembly. His abbot's quarters were austere and quiet; with ragged robes and coarse food, he did not eat past noon, continuing this to the end of his life. Whenever his shaved hair was gathered, it would always produce five-colored śarīras, or hair would pierce through their midst. Some obtained his fallen teeth, and they produced śarīras endlessly. After his burial, when people prayed, some obtained them on mats or bedding, or obtained them on clothes or shoes, never in a fixed place. The monastery was far from water; the Master chiseled the rocks to make channels, fitting them together like mother and child, and reaching the refectory, kitchen, and bathhouse without omission. Once, when a noblewoman entered the monastery, she wished to wash her hands in the channel, when suddenly an alligator leaped out; the woman collapsed in fright and only revived after a long time. The son of a nobleman took lodging to the west of the Dharma hall, bringing wine and meat with him; when someone stopped him, he would not comply. Soon after, the Dharma drum thundered like lightning and fell to the ground; the nobleman's son fled in terror. The trace of the strike still exists today. One day, a young postulant fell prostrate on the ground and said: 'I am the spirit protecting the saṅghārāma. I am wrestling with the spirit of Taibai; you should order the monastic assembly to chant dhāraṇīs to assist me.' Someone said: 'Why not report this to the abbot?' The spirit said: 'I have heard that the Venerable Zhengjue has resided here for over ten years; every time I arrive at his sleeping quarters wishing to see him, I tremble with fear and cannot move forward, so in the end I have never met him.' In composing prose, he was completely unstudied at first, and it was finished as soon as he put brush to paper. Lord Pan Lianggui, Secretariat Drafter, requested an inscription for the Dayong Hermitage, which [the Master] personally wrote on stone; [Pan] sighed and said: 'It stands shoulder to shoulder with the Third Patriarch's Inscription on Faith in Mind.' In the fifth month after the Master passed away,