We give next a series of stanzas in various metres from different hymns, in which the saint utters in song some of the joy which his religion has brought him. God has revealed mysteries to him which tongue cannot tell, and dwells in his life's innermost places. God is to him the fabled katpaha tree, supplying his every need. God is his all in all, and His presence is sweeter than melody or evening moonlight.

36. The moving water He made stand unmoving in His hair;
And He my thoughtless heart hath fixed it thought of Him alone:
He taught me that which none can learn, what none can see laid bare;
What tongue tells not He told; me He pursuer and made His own.
The spotless pure, the holy One, my fell disease He healed,
And in Punturutti to me e'en me, Himself revealed.

37. O wealth, my treasure, sweetness, lustre fair of heavenly hosts,
Of lustre glory that excels, embodied One, my kin,
My flesh, yea heart within my flesh, image within my heart,
My all-bestowing tree, my eye, pupil my eye within,
Picture seen in that pupil, lord of Aduturai cool,
Immortals' king, keep far from me strong pain of fruits of sin.

38. Thou to me art parents, Lord,
Thou all kinsmen that I need,
Thou to me art loved ones fair,
Thou art treasure rich indeed.
Family, friends, home art Thou,
Life and joy I draw from Thee,
False world's good by Thee I leave,
Gold, pearl, wealth art Thou to me.

39. As the vina's pure sound, as the moonlight at even,
As the south wind's soft breath, as the spring's growing heat,
As the pool hovered over by whispering bees,
So sweet is the shade at our Father-Lord's feet.

40. No man holds sway o'er us,
Nor death nor hell fear we;
No tremblings, griefs of mind,
No pains nor cringings see.
Joy, day by day, unchanged
Is ours, for we are His,
His ever, who doth reign,
Our Sankara, in bliss.
Here to His feet we've come,
Feet as plucked flow're'ts fair;
See how His ears divine
Ring and white couch-shell wear.

41. Though they give me the jewels from Indra's abode,
Though they grant me dominion o'er earth, yea o'er heaven,
If they be not the friends of our lord Mahadev,
What care I for wealth by such ruined hands giv'n?
But if they love Siva, who hides in His hair
The river of Ganga, then whoe'er they be,
Foul lepers, or outcastes, yea slayers of kine,
To them is my homage, gods are they to me.

Often the Hindu devotee asks and re-asks the fundamental question 'Who am I?', coming to the saddest of conclusions, but setting against the background of his delusive life of self the great reality of God, to worship whom is to find release from the prison-house of personality.