宏智禪師廣錄 6.44

6.44

The original ground of a patch-robed monk is pure, vast, and grandly level, with no shore in sight. Within it, plowing the clouds and sowing the moon, distinct, empty, and open, for one's own enjoyment and use. Now emerging, now submerging, freely gathering in, freely releasing, directly causing the two modes of heaven and earth to share its generation and completion, and the myriad phenomena to share its arising and ceasing. Towering and lofty—from where does it come? Solitary and quiet—where does it go? It can be said that empty space cannot contain it, and the great earth cannot support it. Wonderfully existing, its form cannot be grasped; supremely empty, its name cannot be obtained. Existence and nonexistence, effort exhausted, the paths of commoner and sage severed—only then is there the season of arriving home. Exactly at such a time, what do you attain? Across ten thousand acres the cold eyes purely illuminate the snow; look carefully at the person plowing with effort within.