Agni and Brahman, the sacred fire and the divine word, grew together—each nourished by the essence of Brahman, each offered up in the spirit of Brahman. Agni, kindled through the power of Brahman, becomes the central deity in the sacrifice dedicated to Rohita, the seer who knows the sun’s path. In this hallowed rite, one presence is concentrated in truth, another is kindled in the waters, but always it is Agni, awakened by Brahman, who receives worship in Rohita’s sacrifice. This Agni, whom the wind encircles and whom Indra and Brahmanaspati uphold, is honored in the sacred offering of Rohita, the knower of the sun’s mysteries. Rohita, preparing the altar as the earth itself and making the sky his southern boundary, formed Agni—the devourer, the all-pervading self—using the clarified butter gathered throughout the year. Thus, Agni the devourer became both altar and earth, the ghee of the year transformed into rain. Upon this altar, Agni, with his hymns, raised the mighty mountains to their lofty heights. Having established the mountains above with his sacred songs, Rohita addressed the earth, saying, “Within you, may all that exists and all that is yet to be come into being.” From that first sacrifice, all creation was born—what has been and what will be. Out of it arose all that shines in this world, all upheld by Rohita, the seer. Yet, Rohita proclaims: whoever treads upon the earth with disrespect, or acts impurely facing the sun, their root is cut off—not their shadow, and no other is made. Likewise, whoever passes between Rohita and his shadow, or between him and Agni, their root is severed, not their shadow, and no substitute is created. If anyone today, O god Sūrya, comes between you and me, from them we wipe away evil dreams, impurity, and misfortune. May we not stray from the path, nor from the sacrifice, O Indra, O Soma; may no enemy linger among us. May the one who prepares the sacrifice—the thread stretched among the gods—be the oblation we consume. Then the banners of the sun rise, shining brightly in the sky—the sun who sees all people, the great-vowed, gracious one. We praise the sun, guardian of the world, who reveals all directions, who shines with his rays, swift-winged and quick across the heavens, who with his brilliance illumines all the quarters. As the sun moves east and west by his own law, drawing forth the days with his power, great is his majesty, great his fame—he alone is born encompassing all. Seven green ones, many in number, carry the wise, swift, radiant sun; Atri, the sage, led the flowing one to the sky, and all see him circling his course. May nothing harm you, O Sun, as you travel your path; with well-being, journey on your auspicious way. Measuring the sky and the divine earth, you traverse day and night. Well-being to you, O Sun, as you ride your chariot, drawn swiftly by your best green steeds—whether a hundred horses or seven, or many more. Mount your radiant, well-yoked chariot, O Sun; set the swift steeds ablaze. Your bright green horses, whether seven or a hundred, carry you on your journey. Seven green horses you have yoked to your chariot, shining with golden form and vast might. Released beyond the darkness, shaking it off, you, the god, ascend to the sky. With a great banner, the god approaches, driving away darkness and beholding the light. The divine bird of the sky, the heroic son of Aditi, reveals all the worlds. As you rise, you stretch out your rays and sustain all forms; by your will, you shine over both oceans and encompass all worlds in your splendor. By their magic, two children move back and forth, playing as they circle the ocean—one observes all worlds, the other is drawn by golden horses. In the sky, O Sun, you are established three times, marking the month; thus you move, well-supported and shining, proclaiming all beings. You endure both, like a calf with its mothers; even before, the gods knew this sacred knowledge. What lies beyond the ocean, the Sun seeks to know; his path is vast, spread wide—both what was and what will be. By his effort, he attains that from which there is no return, and by that, he does not withhold the food of immortality from the gods. Upwards, the rays carry Jātavedas, the god, the Sun, for all to see. Like birds flying away, the rays depart with the nights, ever serving the all-seeing Sun. His rays are visible, his beams shining among the people like flames of fire. You are the swift one, all-seeing, O Sun, maker of light, shining upon all realms. You turn toward the gatherings of the gods, toward human assemblies, toward all the shining world for vision. With your radiant eye, O blazing one, you observe all beings; you, O Varuṇa, see all. You move through the wide atmosphere, O Sun, bearing your light through the days, witnessing all births. Seven green horses draw you, O divine Sun, on your chariot, their manes fiery, and you see all. The seven swift mares, offspring of the Sun’s chariot, are yoked for your journey, and by your own harnessing, you travel. The red one, ascetic through asceticism, ascended to heaven; he enters the womb, is born again, and becomes the lord of the gods. He moves among all people, faces all directions, has hands everywhere, and stretches everywhere—he bears, with both arms and wings, the one god who generates heaven and earth. With one foot, he strides farther than the two-footed; from the two-footed, he approaches the three-footed behind; from the two-footed, he strides farther than the six-footed; and those with one foot compose their bodies. Untiring and ever advancing, when the tawny one takes his place, shining, he creates two forms. Adorned with a banner, rising and enduring the vast spaces, O shining one, you illuminate all the paths of the sun.