Verse 40

⁴⁰House of the self of the three worlds, wide-strider, three-eyed, whose reach steals the heart of the three worlds: Diti's sons and Danu's sons and the rest are unfoldings of you as well. This is the hour of their undertaking, and you, holder of the rod, by a power of your own self, in shapes of god and man and beast and mixed and water-going, have laid the rod on them as their offence deserved. So kill this one too, Bhagavan, Tvastr's son, if you think it right. ⁴¹We are yours, and we bow to you, father, father's father. The chains on our hearts are bound to the meditation on the pair of your lotus feet, and you have made us your own by uncovering your own mark. With a bright, lovely, cool smiling look coloured by your pity, and with the sweet nectar of your speech pouring out, you can still the burning in us, spotless one.

⁴²And then, Bhagavan: you whose divine play of maya works as the cause of the arising and standing and dissolving of the whole world; who within the hearts of all the ranks of the living, and outside them too, in the form of Brahman, the inward self, and in the form of the ground, according to the differences of place and time and body and state, experience things by being both their stuff and the one who takes them in; who are the witness of every notion; whose body is space; who are the highest Brahman itself, the supreme Self. What particular matter is there here that we could make known to you, as sparks might to the fire whose seed is gold?

⁴³For that very reason, arrange it yourself for us who have come to the shade of the hundred leaves of your feet, Bhagavan, our highest teacher, that shade which stills the weariness of the round of birth with all its wrongs; the thing for the wanting of which we have come near. ⁴⁴Now then, Lord, kill Tvastr's son, who is swallowing the three worlds. By him our fires and our missiles and our weapons have all been swallowed, Krsna. ⁴⁵To the swan, to him whose home is the small space of the heart, to the onlooker, to Krsna whose fame is clean, to him whose work has no beginning, to the gatherer of the good, to the goal sought at the end when the traveller through becoming reaches his own resting place: to Hari, salutation.