---
title: "石關禪師語錄 · 住山歌"
description: "石关禅师语录是清代临济宗僧人说芳桂等人编集的禅宗典籍。该书收录了石关禅师的法语开示机锋对答及偈颂等内容集中体现了其直指人心见性成佛的禅学思想。作为清代禅宗的重要文献它展现了明清之际禅宗的修行风貌与思想传承对研究临济宗法脉及清代佛教发展具有重要参考价值是了解当时禅门宗风与修行实践的重要文本。"
url: "https://rushiwowen.co/en/r/cmgnk23qg01tmjj0440r8c4c6"
---

### 住山歌

> Mountain Dwelling Song

君不見古人說道住山良，仙風道骨多詩腸，耳不聞貪嗔癡財色忙，眼常見松竹梅霜雪揚，草鞋一雙腳跟老，烏藤七尺腰肢強，侵早起穿件百衲千結破衣裳，推開窗聽得前山黃鳥叫陰涼，流來清泉與石髓，煎作清涼肺腑好茶湯，只樂得沒有里胥債主催錢糧，又沒有賓客檀施要支當，單單鋪得一張折腳床，松風明月細商量，乘興吟出一句兩句放毫光，粘得稿子滿茆堂，不知來得幾個採樵子，大家嘻嘻呵呵笑一場，忽然想著幾根鮮筍喫，直到高山頂上束一筐，也不管春蘭芳秋菊黃，眼空四海任滄桑，末法世好珍藏，人情冷煖如朝霜，若落了十日五日雨，籬緊閉花徑荒，幽然獨得與高狂，荳腐經年不見嘗，只落得個野僧千般絕萬般忘，拍手呵呵上高岡，忽然一嘯聲入白雲鄉，石關道人癡興長。

> Look—the ancients said true mountain-dwellers have a natural grace: spirit-like, bone-etched, full of poetic heart. Their ears no longer hear the noise of greed, anger, attachment, wealth, or desire. Their eyes only see pine, bamboo, and plum blossoms —frost and snow flying in the air. A pair of straw sandals, well-worn with age; a seven-foot rattan staff, their waist still strong. Rising early, they throw on a patched robe, a thousand mends on tattered cloth. Pushing open the window, they hear the oriole singing in the cool shade of the front hill. A clear spring flows—mingling with stone marrow— they brew it into a tea that cleanses the lungs, a cool and healing broth. What joy: no tax collectors or creditors demanding money or grain, no guests or donors requiring hospitality or support. Simply a broken-legged bed laid out— among wind through pines and bright moonlight, they take their ease. When the mood strikes, they hum a line or two, radiant light streaming forth, pasting drafts all over the thatched hall. A few wood-gatherers happen by, and everyone laughs and chuckles together. Then suddenly they think of fresh bamboo shoots to eat, so they climb to the mountain peak and fill a basket. They care nothing for spring orchids' fragrance or autumn chrysanthemums' gold. Their eyes sweep the four seas; they watch the world change. In this final age of the Dharma, such things are rare treasures. Human warmth and cold last only as long as morning frost— if five or ten days of rain should fall, the fence is tightly closed, the flower path grows wild. Alone in stillness, they enjoy their own lofty madness— no bean-curd tasted for years on end. So it goes: a wild monk, letting go of a thousand things, forgetting ten thousand more— clapping their hands, laughing aloud, climbing the high ridge. Suddenly a long call rises, entering the realm of white clouds... Thus muses the Stone Pass Hermit, his playful passion long and deep.