O ye gods, the lowly ye raise again;
he that hath sinned, ye breathe once more to life.

Two winds do blow—from the stream to the far bounds; let the one bear hither the craft of healing, let the other waft away the ill afar.

O Wind, breathe health into this stead;
O Wind, bear off the ailment from this flesh.
For thou, who holdest all healing in thy wings, dost haste as the gods’ own runner.

I come with gifts of goodly worth, with none that harm nor mar;
I bring thee skill that blesseth—
and cast thy sickness out and away.

Let the gods bring saving near;
let the host of the Maruts bring saving; let all things living bear help, that this soul may be free from affliction.

Lo, these waters are true salves;
they wash away the ache and the grief.
For all things, the waters are healing—
let them fashion a balm for thee.

With these two hands, each bearing five-fold branch, and this tongue—the fore-goer of speech— with these that unbind thy hurt,
with these do we lay our touch upon thee.