No one will ever speak well of him who picks up a peppercorn and throws away the philosopher’s stone. His immortal soul wanders endlessly through eighty-four lakhs of living species by the four modes of birth.

Driven by illusion (my deluding potency) and encompassed by time, destiny, innate nature and phenomenal existence, it ever drifts along. Sometimes God of his mercy and without any reason for the affection bestows on him a human body,

A raft to carry him across the ocean of mundane existence, with my grace for a favourable wind and a worthy teacher for a helmsman to steer the course of this strong boat – a combination which, though hard to win, has been made easily available to him.

The man who, though equipped with such means as these, fails to cross the ocean of birth and death, is an ungrateful dull-witted wretch, bent on his own destruction.

If you would seek happiness here as well as hereafter, listen to my words and store them deeply in your hearts. The way of devotion to me, my brothers, is easy and enjoyable, so say the Puranas and the Vedas.

The way of knowledge is difficult to pursue and beset with numerous impediments; its appliances are cumbrous and there is no sure footing for the mind to rest on. There are some who do with infinite trouble attain wisdom, yet, lacking in faith, they fail to win my love.

Faith is independent and a mine of every blessing; but men cannot attain it without the fellowship of saints. Saints for their part are inaccessible without a stock of meritorious deeds; it is their fellowship in any case that brings to an end the cycle of births and deaths.