And yet my breath,

quickly forced, or grandly eased,

or in stuttered sustain.

Upon a hill, on a solid ground,

The Craftsman founded a house

A year and a day in its building,

Whose walls are invitation to the gods,

Whose walls welcome the assembly of the gods.

One like this.

And the gods built a stage tower,

To set the Craftsman high upon it.

From where he may look upon the cosmos

In its beauty, in its being, in its becoming.

Its grandeur, like this.

Then the gods exalted him, and sang praises to his wisdom,

His power of making, his wielding of the Hammer of Purest Tone,

The casting of the net that subdued the Hundred-Coiled Dragon.

Huuu.

They sang praises to the one whose word

Makes the grazing lands and the watering places,

Makes the fertile lands,

Sets the seed rows and the paths of the plows.

Huuu.

They sang praises to the one

Whose might defends against the evil,

Who welcomes the beautiful into the Assembly hall,

Gladdening the hearts of the gods.

Huuu.