The excitement is the whole thing. This is gossip rather than a sermon. The voice belongs to a girl telling her sakhi, the friend a bride tells everything to, and the news is that the bridegroom she asked for is here, beside her, in this courtyard and that one and everywhere she looks.
Khusrau was a man, and he writes as a bride, a new wife, a daughter coming home to her mother, constantly. It is not a disguise. In this poetry the one who searches is the woman and the one being searched for is the bridegroom, so writing as a woman is simply writing as somebody looking for God.
Halfway through, the excitement stops and the singing turns into a list of names. Nizamuddin, then Alauddin, Fariduddin, Qutbuddin, Moinuddin, Mohiuddin. That is a silsila, a chain of teachers reaching back through one master to the one who taught him. She has not merely taken a liking to somebody. She has been handed a rope, and the rope goes back a long way. Which names get sung, and in what order, depends on the family of qawwals on stage. You sing your own chain.
Read the first line and the last one together and you catch what the song has been doing all along. It opens with colour in my mahboob's house, using the ordinary word for the one you love. Near the end she calls him Mahboob-e-Ilahi, Beloved of God, which happens to be Nizamuddin Auliya's actual title, still carved at his shrine. The song has been using it as a pet name for eleven parts and only lets you hear what it really was at the very end.
Jag ujiyaro, he lights up the world, is village Braj. Khusrau had the entire Persian vocabulary of divine light available to him and used it freely elsewhere. Here he writes the way a child talks, and that plainness is what has kept the piece in the shrines for seven hundred years. Fareed Ayaz and Abu Muhammad sing it where it belongs, at the dargah. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's is the concert-hall version, and the one most people outside the shrines have heard.