Buddha's Admonition to Kings Sutra (佛說諫王經)

Sutra of the Buddha's Admonition to the King

Translated by the Song Dynasty An Yang Marquis Juqu Jingsheng

Thus I have heard:

Once, the Buddha was staying in the Jeta Grove of Anathapindika’s Park in the kingdom of Shravasti. At that time, the king, whose name was Purashinaya, was traveling through the country. On his journey, he passed by the Buddha’s dwelling. Dust-covered, the king removed his sword and sunshade, bowed, and paid homage to the Buddha. The World-Honored One said, “Please take a seat.” So the king sat down.

The Buddha asked the king, "Where have you come from, your body covered in dust?" The king stepped back, bowed low, and replied, "Yes, I have been traveling through the kingdom to attend to disasters and anomalies."

The Buddha said to the king: "A king should rule with righteousness, without losing proper measure, and should always nurture the people with a compassionate heart—this is how one comes to reign as a sovereign. Those who become kings do so because of good deeds performed in past lives. When governing the affairs of the people, one must not act with bias or injustice. If the various ministers, officials, and even the common people all voice grievances, and the king rules without fairness, the whole land will be filled with anger. When the king dies, his spirit will sink into the great hell of Mount Tai. Even if he later regrets it, it will be too late to change anything. If the king governs the country evenly and always adheres to proper measure, the ministers and people will praise his virtue, and the hearts of all within the four seas will turn toward him. The heavens, dragons, and spirits will all hear of the king's goodness. When he dies, he will ascend to heaven, and afterward there will be no regret. The king should not indulge in lustful pleasures that ruin his own character, nor should he, in anger, harm or destroy others. He should accept the honest and upright counsel of loyal ministers. And when speaking with others, he should always be lenient and considerate, without harsh or scorching words."

A king should treat his people with four kinds of care. What are these four? Provide for them according to their needs, speak to them with kind words, share the treasures of the land with the people, and look after the elderly, the sick, and those who are widowed or alone. When a king does this, the nation will be at peace, and he will gain blessings. After his life ends, he will be born in heaven, and his wishes will be fulfilled naturally. A king cannot always rely on his own power. Though people may fear and respect him, and he may enjoy the pleasures of fine elephants, good horses, precious chariots, wise ministers, and a host of attendants surrounding him, along with storehouses filled with treasures and goods—all of these will decay and pass away. Nothing lasts forever.

The young will grow old, the strong will surely fall ill, and all living beings with blood must eventually die. Treasures, wives, children, and the household—inside and out—cannot be kept forever. It is like a person who dreams of palaces, fine gardens, trees, flowers and fruit, ponds with flowing springs, playing within them with boundless joy—but upon waking, all vanishes instantly, and none can be found where they were. All that exists in this world is like a dream.

The king observed that trees bear flowers and fruit, yet these cannot remain on the tree forever—even the green leaves will eventually wither and fall. Crowns, headdresses, ornate robes, and fine garments cannot stay beautiful forever; flowing water cannot remain full forever. A fire set in the wilderness blazes fiercely, but soon dies out. Violent winds, sudden rains, thunder, and lightning vanish in an instant. When the sun is about to rise, the stars lose their brilliance; the sun shines brightly over the world, yet before long darkness falls. The impermanence of the world is exactly like this. It is like four great stone mountains, each with six faces, closing in from all sides simultaneously, crushing everything between them—all living beings, whether noble or humble, will be ground to dust.

There are four things in life that no one can stop or escape:

First, old age comes and the body weakens. Second, sickness arrives and brings suffering to the mind. Third, death comes and the spirit departs from the body. Fourth, all the treasures one owns must be left behind—none can be kept forever.

When these four arrive, there is no escape, no hiding place. They cannot be stopped by words or pleas, nor can they be dissolved by offering wealth or begging for mercy.

At that time, even a king surrounded by his finest elephants, swift horses, precious treasures, strong warriors, ministers, and hundreds of officials—who among them can hold back death for him?

Have you seen the lion, the fiercest of beasts? When it spots a herd of deer and decides to strike, it pounces, seizes its prey, and tears the flesh apart. Can words describe such pain?

Life is like that lion taking the deer. When a person's life comes to an end, the body grows restless, the blood fades, the complexion changes. The days of life grow short; the organs fail; one no longer desires food or drink. Even powerful spells, skilled doctors, and fine medicines cannot cure it.

The dying person speaks confused words, and whatever they ask for, their family tries to give. The body aches all over as if being beaten. The hands and feet twitch uncontrollably, the joints feel like they are coming apart. The mouth is dry, the breath is short, the body grows thin and weak. One can no longer stand or sit without help.

Even if good medicine and nourishing porridge are offered, the throat can barely swallow. The muscles and tendons feel as though they are about to snap. Breath goes out but does not come back in. The lips crack and dry. The vital energy is exhausted; only sickness remains.

The tongue begins to shrink back. The face loses all color. The ears and nose close up—no sound is heard, no scent is smelled. The hands and feet cramp and stiffen. The mouth is locked shut; one wants to speak but cannot. The hands may grasp at empty air, reaching for nothing. Cold sweat and tears flow continuously.

The mind is consumed by pain, awareness fades, and knowledge of the world disappears. The warmth leaves the body, the body grows cold, and the spirit departs.

All the precious treasures, parents, brothers, wives, children, friends, and servants—all must be left behind. Alone, the spirit goes on, not knowing where it is headed. Though the world may be enjoyable, no one can stay in it for long.

The harmonious sounds of lutes, harps, zithers, and flutes fill the air together; the melodies of song and dance performances delight the ear—yet these too are impermanent, like illusions or dreams, impossible to preserve for long. Behold the splendor of elephants, horses, jeweled chariots, and shining ornaments. When the king sets out, bells are struck and drums beaten, with heralds leading before and behind. The king rides in a feathered-canopied carriage, attendants holding banners, their handles carved with kingfisher feathers and peacock plumes, used to brush away dust. The roads are leveled and prepared, painted railings line the way, and all the people gather to watch, none without awe and reverence. Fine flowers and renowned incense are offered to welcome the king, as all proclaim wishes for his ten thousand years—yet even this cannot be preserved for long.