In plain words
The strength is there. But only because it does not know, it stays cowed and humbled before a petty, puny man. You know this well. The bee. This bee bores even into hard, seasoned wood and goes inside. The bee that has the strength to bore through even such hard wood: when it enters the most tender lotus and the lotus petals all close together, it is bound, forgets its own strength, and dies right there. It does not know its own strength. In the same way, man makes no fitting effort to recognise the Ānanda that is in him, the divinity that is in him, the purity that is in him. And though he makes no effort, he does not believe the words of those who tell him. When you make the fitting effort for it, you will surely experience this truth. Through this truth you will surely experience Ānanda.
The musk deer. It is a kind of deer. Now and then a fragrance rises from it. It is born from its own navel. It enjoys that fragrance itself. Wondering where this fragrance is coming from, it roams all through the forest. Having roamed the whole forest and grown tired, at the very last it sits down in the shade of a tree and takes a little rest. While it rests, it lies down to rest with its nose near its own navel. Then it recognises the fragrance coming from its own navel. Alas, what a foolish one I am! Not knowing this fragrance that came from me alone, I roamed the whole forest wondering where it was. I am worn out. This is the very nature of Ajñāna. Man too is just the same. Nityānanda, Brahmānanda, Advaitānanda: these are man's svarūpa and svabhāva. Only because he falls under the vāsanā for sense objects, things outer, things physical, things of Prakṛti, does he fail to understand this divine principle, so divine, so splendid, so ever new. He cannot experience it. He cannot savour it.
At the root of everything is attachment to the body.