It delights me to recount your glorious deeds; love itself seals my lips. Two birds nested on a single tree, and a wicked hunter arrived. He released a hawk from the treetop and fitted an arrow to his bow. In that moment the birds cried out to you: come quickly, O Lord, our mother and father. If they flew, the hawk would kill them; if they stayed, the hunter would pierce them. Hearing the desperate cry of those birds, you swiftly took the form of a serpent. You bit the hunter and felled him to the ground, and the hawk too was struck by the arrow. Such is your mercy toward your own devotees; you become a shelter in their hour of peril. Says Tuka, your glory fills the three worlds; even the voice of the Vedas cannot describe it fully.