Funeral Hymn

From the dead hand I take the bow he wielded
To gain for us dominion, might and glory.
Thou there, we here, rich in heroic offspring,
Will vanquish all assaults of every foeman.

Approach the bosom of the earth, the mother,
This earth extending far and most propitious;
Young, soft as wool to bounteous givers, may she
Preserve thee from the lap of dissolution.

Open wide, O Earth, press not heavily upon him,
Be easy of approach, hail him with kindly aid;
As with a robe a mother hides her son,
So shroud this man, O Earth.

Rig Veda 10.18


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