শ্ৰী অঞ্জনশৈলনাথ স্তোত্ৰম্

A hymn to the lord of Añjana hill, whose every verse but the first closes on the same line — I worship Hari, the lord of Añjanaśaila — and whose verses are bound by beginning almost every word with the same vowel. Its centre is a catalogue of what the god does for the afflicted, and it is startlingly concrete for a stotra: he shows himself to those whose power of sight has shrunk almost to nothing, makes those deaf by nature hear, causes the mute bowed before him to speak, sets the lame running faster than the wind, draws crippled arms out until they hang to the knee, and brings back to life others whose heads had been struck off. Around that the writing is gentler, calling him an ocean of nectar of measureless compassion, guileless in his affection, and unfading in beauty beyond what speech or mind can reach.