LORD of the path, O Pūṣan, we have yoked and bound you to our hymn,
Even as a chariot, to win the prize.
Bring us the wealth that men require, a masterful owner of a home,
Generous with the generous reward.
Even those who refuse to give, urge you to give,
O glowing Pūṣan, make the miserly soul soft.
Clear paths that we may win the prize; scatter our enemies far away.
Strong God, may all our thoughts be fulfilled.
Penetrate with an awl, O Sage, the hearts of avaricious churls,
And make them subject to our will.
Thrust with your awl, O Pūṣan; seek what the miserly heart holds dear,
And make it subject to our will.
Tear up and read in pieces, Sage, the hearts of avaricious churls,
And make them subject to our will.
Thou, glowing Pūṣan, carry an awl that urges men to pray;
With it tear up and rend to shreds the heart of every one.
Thou bearest, glowing Lord! a goad with a horned point that guides the cows,
So we seek thy gift of bliss.
Make this hymn of ours produce kine, horses, and a store of wealth
For our delight and use as men.