Verse 1

¹I praise you, worthy of praise: your body a cloud, your clothes lightning, your face bright with gunja berries at the ears and a peacock feather, a garland of wood flowers on you, your beauty marked by the ball of food and the stick and the horn and the flute, your feet soft, and you the child of a cowherd. ²God, of this body too, which is your kindness to me, made of your own will and not of the elements, no one at all can measure the greatness, even with the mind turned inward. How much less yours, who are the tasting of the self's own joy. ³Those who set aside the labour after knowledge and simply bow, and live on the talk of you that the good make loud, staying where they stand and giving it their body and speech and mind as it comes to their hearing: by these, Unconquered one, you are for the most part conquered in the three worlds.

⁴Mighty one, those who throw away devotion, the road to what is good, and wear themselves out to gain bare understanding: for them only the wearing out is left over and nothing else, as for men threshing empty husks. ⁵Boundless one, many yogins too, here in the past, laid their strivings before you and woke by devotion alone, won by their own work and brought to them by the story, and came easily, Unfallen, to your highest going.