To you we offer praise and perform the sacrifice, as we invoked you in your merit.
You are a spring in the desert, Agni, O Ancient King, to the one who wishes to worship.
You are the gathering people's refuge, as cows seek the warm stable, O Youngest One.
You are the messenger between gods and mortals, and you travel with glory between them.
You make us grow like a noble child, and your mother nourishes us with sweet affection.
You pass over the desert slopes yearning, and seek, like a creature set free, your food.
We are foolish, O Wise and error-free: indeed, Agni, you know your greatness.
There is the form: he rises, licks, swallows, and, as House-Lord, kisses the Young Maiden.
He rises ever fresh in the ancient fuel, smoke-bannersed, gray, he makes the wood his home.
No swimmer, Steer, he presses through the waters, and mortals bear him to his place.
Like thieves who risk their lives and haunt the forest, the two with their ten girdles have secured him.
This is a new hymn meant for you, O Agni: yoke your chariot with gleaming parts.
Homage and prayer are yours, O Jātavedas, and this my song shall evermore exalt you.
Agni, protect our children and descendants, and guard with ever-watchful care our bodies.