Grave inscription for my son Beopwon, who died young殤子法源壙銘
沙彌法源。吾子也。捨吾姓而從釋氏者也。年十一。投禪師規公。祝髮爲衲僧。事師甚謹。性警悟。凡使令輒迎導其意。不須頤指。故師最愛之。在寺暴得病。至吾家臥一宵。明日而化。間三日瘞于山。噫。何其倏忽也如此。歲金龍月黃鍾剃度。年水馬律夾鍾反眞。爲僧凡一十六月耳。予遂爲銘詞。刻三尺木板納于壙。寓哀而已。其身與銘。不如速朽。何必鑱諸石。壽其傳哉。銘曰。僧其服一日足。況二冬一夏。汝死猶可。
The novice Beopwon (法源) was my son — one who gave up my surname and followed that of Shakya (釋氏).
At eleven he entrusted himself to the Zen Master Lord Gyu (規公), shaved his head and became a monk in the patched robe. He served his teacher most reverently. His nature was wakeful and bright, so that in whatever he was set to do he would at once anticipate and reckon out his teacher's intent, and there was no need even to point with the chin. And so his teacher loved him most.
While at the monastery he suddenly fell ill, came to my house, lay one night, and died the next day. Three days later we buried him on the mountain. Alas, how can it have been so swift?
In the eleventh month of the gyeong-jin (庚辰) year he shaved his head, and in the second month of the im-o (壬午) year he truly departed; so the time he spent as a monk was in all but sixteen months.
I have at last composed the words of an inscription and cut them on a board of wood three feet long to lay in the grave-pit, only to lodge my grief there. His body and this inscription — nothing better than that they rot quickly. Why should I insist on cutting it in stone and making its handing-down last?
The inscription says: A monk's robe is enough if worn but a single day; how much more two winters and one summer. That you have died is, even so, well enough.