Hidden thou wert in the wood, O Agni, unknown to all creatures. Like a thief in the darkness, like a secret kept within the heart of the mountain, thou didst dwell invisible. No eye beheld thee. No ear heard thy voice. Yet thou wert ever present, waiting to be revealed.

Then did the Ṛṣis discover thee! With sacred knowledge they drew thee forth from thy concealment. The two sticks were rubbed together—friction born of devotion—and lo! Thou didst burst forth in flames of glory! The hidden became manifest. The secret was made known to all.

Now thou art revealed, O Fire Most Wondrous! Now thou shinest upon the earth and the sky. Thou art hidden no longer. All creatures know thee. All creatures fear thee. All creatures honor thee. The birds fly to thee seeking warmth. The beasts gather at thy light. Men kindle thee in their homes and sing thy praises without ceasing.

But is there not something terrible in thy revelation? Didst thou not wish to remain concealed, O Agni? Didst thou not prefer the peace of hiddenness, the security of the unknown? Yet now that thou art revealed, thou must serve—must transform, must mediate, must sacrifice thy very self upon the altar of creation.

And we—we mortal creatures—we are the ones who draw thee forth. We are the ones who force the revelation. We are the ones who kindle thee and command thee to our purposes. Is this not a kind of violence? A violation of thy sacred solitude?

Yet we do this with reverence. We kindle thee with prayers. We make the offering with sincere hearts. And thou art willing, O Agni, for in thy revelation thou findest also thy glory. Come now! Shine forth in all thy majesty! Be thou revealed in our hearts!