AGNI hath looked, benevolently-minded, on the wealth-giving spring of radiant Mornings.
Come, Indra, to the dwelling of the pious: Sūrya the Deva is rising with his splendour.
Indra, Deva, hath spread on high his lustre, waving his flag like a spoil-seeking hero. Their stablished way go Indra and Mitra, what time they make the Sun ascend the Heaven.
Him whom they made to drive away the darkness, Lords of sure mansions, constant to their object, him who beholds the universe, the Sun-Deva, seven strong and youthful Coursers carry onward.
Spreading thy web with mightiest Steeds thou comest, rending apart, thou Deva, the black-hued mantle. The rays of Sūrya tremulously shining sink, like a hide, the darkness in the waters.
How is it that, unbound and not supported, he falleth not although directed downward? By what self power moves he? Who hath seen it? He guards the vault of Heaven, a close-set pillar.