Depart, O Death, take thou the farther road, thine own path— not the way that leadeth unto the gods.

To thee I speak, who seest and who hearkeneth:
lay not thy hand upon our offspring, nor upon our men of might.

Let thy step leave no trace; let the mark of death be wiped away.
Stretch forth thy years, ye folk of the rite—lengthen the thread of life.
Wax great in seed and silver; be cleansed, be hallowed, ye who are meet for offering and flame.

The living have turned aside from the path of the dead.
The calling of the gods hath favored us this day.
With faces turned forward we go to the dance and the gladness, making for ourselves a life more long, more wide.

This wall I raise for those who yet draw breath.
Let none from this gathering pass unto that end.
Let them live full a hundred falls of leaf and field, and bury death beneath the mountain's brow.

As days come after days, and seasons chase the ones before, so, O Shaper of Fate, grant their years in right order— let the younger not go before the elder.

Climb ye the stair of life, take up old age in season, each in his place, one after one.

Here shall Tvaṣṭar, begetter of fair birth, with the godly wives beside him, weave a long span for your breath.

These women come—wives still joined, unmarred by widowhood.
Let them anoint themselves with sweet butter, and step forth together.
Let them come unweeping, untouched by sorrow, adorned in their jewels, and be the first to mount the womb anew.

Arise, O woman, return unto the land of the living.
Thou liest by him whose breath hath flown—yet thou remainest.
Come now: thou art born again, a bride to the man who taketh thy hand and calleth thee his own.

Take thou the bow from the hand of him who hath gone, and with it win for us rule, brightness, and strength.

Let there be peace between thee and the dead— and let us, with strong sons, prevail in every trial and fray.

Lie down upon this Mother Earth, broad and kindly, whose girth is without end, whose lap is soft to him who giveth.

She is as a maiden, tender as wool, and from her breast may she shield thee from the grasp of Ending.

Rise up, O Earth—press not down upon him.
Be thou a gentle resting-place, where he may lie in ease and curl like a child.
As a mother folds her son beneath her cloak, so hide him, Earth, and hold him close.

Let Earth stay lifted, upheld in grace.
Let a thousand posts be fastened in her deep.
Let the house drip with ghee, a roof ever over him in that place.

I set the earth upright from thee.
This clod I lay down—may it do thee no harm.
Let the forefathers bear this beam upon their shoulders; let Yama, the Lord of Death, fix thy seat and stead.

Today they have laid him down, as a feather from the shaft.
The word set before me I have caught in my grasp, as one would take the reins of a horse at rest.