Son of great strength! O Agni, thou art born
From two mothers who labor without ceasing.
The sacred sticks do hold thee in their bosom,
And with their friction call thee forth to life.

What mighty labor this! What sacred bearing!
That thou shouldst come forth crying from the wood,
A newborn god, most terrible and burning,
Born of the struggle of the kindling-sticks.

Thy father is the strength within the mortal,
The muscular will that drilleth without tiring.
Thy mothers are the wood so dry and eager,
The timber of the forest, old and wise.

How strange a birth! No womb of flesh and blood
Could ever bear a thing so hot and fierce.
Instead, the wood's cool heart doth serve as cradle,
Till friction's heat doth burst thee forth alive.

And having been born thus, through strength and struggle,
Thou art the son of every human effort,
Of every man who labors at his calling,
Who presses forward though the way be hard.

For in thy birth we recognize our own—
We too are children of a mighty struggle,
Born from the friction of desire and will,
From two opposing forces made as one.

O son of strength, teach us thy manner of being!
That we may know ourselves as thou dost know thee,
Born from the struggle, sharpened by the friction,
Made perfect through the heat of great tribulation.

Let us not fear the fire of thy creation,
But welcome it as sign of strength within us.
For he who is not tested in the burning
Hath not yet truly lived or truly been.

Accept our praise for thy most wondrous birth,
O child of contradiction and of struggle!
Go forth now, burning, burning, burning bright—
The son of strength made manifest in flame.