Christmas, here again. Let us raise a loving cup: Peace on earth, goodwill to men, and make them do the washing up.
He who loves me is made pure; his heart melts in joy. He rises to transcendental consciousness by the rousing of his higher emotional nature. Tears of joy flow from his eyes, his hair stands on end, his heart melts in love. The bliss in that state is so intense that, forgetful of himself and his surroundings, he sometimes weeps profusely, or laughs, or sings, or dances; such a devotee is a purifying influence upon the whole universe.
You look at it, but it is not to be seen; Its name is Formless. You listen to it, but it is not to be heard; Its name is Soundless. You grasp it, but it is not to be held; Its name is Bodiless. These three elude all scrutiny. And hence they blend and become one.
