As the first light of dawn rises, the living one has come—the sun ascends, darkness recedes, and radiant light advances across the world. The path is cleared for the sun’s journey, and we find ourselves where life is renewed. Inspired, the singer lifts his voice in praise, exulting at the shining dawns. On this day, O generous one, shine forth for those who praise you, and grant us a long life filled with offspring. The Dawns themselves, rich in cattle and full of heroes, shine for the worshipping mortal. Their blessings, as abundant as the gifts of the wind, grant us horses and the joy of Soma. Mother of the gods, face of Aditi, sign of sacrifice, O great one, shine forth—creator of praise for the priest, dawn for us, grant offspring to our people, O all-encompassing one. Whatever splendid gift you bring, O Dawns, for the wise and the longing, let Mitra, Varuna, Aditi, the river, the earth, and the sky not withhold it from us. Turning our prayers to Rudra, the mighty one with braided hair, bringer of prosperity to his people, we offer our prayers so that he may grant peace to all—two-footed and four-footed—in this community, keeping all nourished and free from harm. Be gracious to us, O Rudra, make us happy; we worship you with reverence, seeking the favor that Manu, our father, once obtained. Through your guidance, may we enjoy that blessing. May we gain your goodwill through our worship, O Rudra, giver of prosperity, most gracious. Bring us happiness, keep our households safe, and accept our oblation for protection. We call upon Rudra, fierce and wise, helper in sacrifice, for aid—may his wrath be far from us, and may we choose his favor and kindness. With reverence, we call upon the boar of the sky, the red one with braided hair, fierce in form, holding healing remedies in his hand. May he grant us shelter, armor, and protection. This word is spoken to the father of the Maruts, sweet and sweeter still, a growth for Rudra. Grant us, immortal, mortal food; be gracious to us, for ourselves, our children, and descendants. Do not harm our great one, nor our little one; do not harm our growing one, nor our grown one. Do not slay our father or our mother; Rudra, do not injure our beloved bodies. Do not injure our offspring, our children, our lives; do not harm us among cattle or horses. Rudra, do not slay our heroes, renowned one; we who offer oblations continually call upon you. Like a herdsman, I bring you praises; grant us, father of the Maruts, your favor. Your benevolent thought is truly auspicious and merciful; thus we choose you alone. Let your favor be far from the slayer of cattle and men, O lord of heroes; let your kindness be with us. Be gracious and speak for us, O god; grant us your protection, mighty one. We have spoken reverence to him, our helper; let Rudra, accompanied by the Maruts, hear our call. May Mitra, Varuna, not harm us, nor Aditi, the river, the earth, nor the sky. The brilliant visage of the gods has arisen—the eye of Mitra, Varuna, and Agni. It fills the heavens, earth, and atmosphere; the sun is truly the soul of all that moves and stands. Shining, the sun approaches the goddess Dawn, as a young man approaches a woman from behind. There, men, worshipping the gods, extend the yokes, each for good and goodness. The sun’s horses are auspicious, tawny, splendid, and easy to guide. Bowing, they ascend the back of the sky, swiftly traversing heaven and earth. Such is the divinity and greatness of the sun, stretched in the midst of the maker’s work. When its tawny horses are yoked from their seat, night spreads its garment for him. On the lap of the sky, the sun makes the forms of Mitra and Varuna visible. One strength is endless and shining, another is dark; the tawny horses carry both. Today, O gods, at the rising of the sun, protect us from sin and fault. May Mitra, Varuna, not harm us, nor Aditi, the river, the earth, nor the sky. Now, I spread my praises to the two Asvins, as the wind spreads clouds. They brought the wife for the child, for joy, with their chariot, as comrades in battle. With swift-footed golden horses, or with the gods’ helpers, ever victorious, the ass of the Asvins won a thousand in the contest of Yama. Tugra called upon the Asvins to rescue Bhujyu in distress, as none else could. The Asvins carried him with their own ships, crossing the atmosphere in waterless vessels. For three nights, three times, with flying steeds, the Asvins carried Bhujyu like birds across the ocean’s expanse, to the far shore, with three chariots, a hundred wheels, and six horses. In a place without support, you showed your strength, O Asvins, in a place without foundation, at the ocean’s edge. When you carried Bhujyu to safety, he boarded a ship with a hundred oars. The Asvins gave a white horse to Yama, the one with many horses, for lasting welfare. That gift is great and worthy of praise; the noble one, always to be invoked, is a winner of prizes. For Pajriya and Kakṣīvat, you two heroes broke open the treasure; you made a hundred jars of strong drink flow from the hoof of the mighty horse. With cold you protected the fire, you bestowed nourishing strength; for the helpless Atri, O Asvins, you brought up the entire company to safety. You, O Nāsatyas, followed the distant one; you made the deep well with a crooked rim, and waters flowed like streams for Gotama’s thousandfold wealth, quenching his thirst. You freed from bonds the one who longed to live, as from a garment you released Cyavāna; you restored the life of the abandoned one, and made him lord of the maidens. That is your praiseworthy and desirable gift, O Nāsatyas, your protection; when, knowing, you brought forth for worship, as from a hidden treasure, what was concealed. I declare openly for gain, with powerful praise, as thunder brings rain, the secret Dadhyañc Atharvaṇa told you with the horse’s head—what he had learned. Purubhujā, the generous, invoked you, O Nāsatyas, for great help; you heard, as if from Vadhri’s wife, and gave the golden-handed one, O Asvins. You released the sitting bird from the wolf’s jaws, O Nāsatyas, and made the wise poet, though suffering, discerning. Like a bird its wing, you cut off the leg of Vispala in the midst of the night’s play; immediately you fitted an iron limb for her, O Ashvins, so she could win the prize in the contest for wealth. You gave a hundred sheep to the blind Ṛjrāśva; his father had made him blind, but you, wondrous Ashvins, healers without fault, restored his sight so he could see. The daughter of the Sun mounted your chariot, O Ashvins, shining like a craftsman’s work, victorious with her horse; all the gods approved in their hearts, and you, O Ashvins, shared in her glory. When you came, O Ashvins, with light for Divodāsa and Bharadvāja, your chariot, drawn by the bull and the dolphin yoked together, brought prosperity, moving in harmony. Thus, from the rising of the sun to the blessings of the Ashvins, the gods are praised, their gifts celebrated, and their protection sought, as the dawn brings renewal, the sun brings life, and the divine ones grant their favor to those who worship with reverence.