Each dawn, O Agni, thou art born anew from the womb of the dry wood! The mortal kindler striketh spark from stone; the flame riseth, tiny at first, then mighty and devouring. Thou art the child of the waters, the son of the lightning, the eternal youth who never groweth old.

When the wood is laid, thou comest forth golden-tongued and bright. Thy light filleth the hut; thy warmth driveth back the cold and the terror of the night. The cattle gather near thy glow; the birds settle upon the roof-beam. All creatures seek thee out, for thou art the comfort of the living world.

Yet thou art also the destroyer. When thou runnest wild through the forest, the trees flee before thee in ash and cinder. The wild beasts scatter; the grass withereth. Thou art both the nurture and the dread, the gentle flame and the consuming fire.

Morning after morning, the priest kindleth thee anew. Each time thou art born, thou art born the same — unchanged and eternal, though thy body is ever young. This is thy mystery, O Agni: that thou diest every night in ash and smoke, yet risest again with the dawn, ever fresh, ever pure.

We praise thy coming! Thou art the herald of day. Thou art the breath of the sacrifice. Accept our offerings of ghee and grain, and carry them to the gods on high. Guard us through the dark hours. Kindle us with thy strength that we too may be reborn, day after day, immortal in thy flame.