The God of the Desert, where the sun blasts,
Is Set, and the patron of all outcasts.
As God of the foreigner, barren earth
Is yours, with all that suffers from great dearth.
The storm that chokes the lungs, and burns the eyes,
No water to the dry land it supplies;
The only souls that in this place survive,
Are they that in the harshness still can thrive.
Those fattened by the black and fertile soil,
That yields abundantly with little toil,
They cannot bear the burning desert heat,
Nor live unless with feasts they are replete.
So, whom you favour is austere and bears
Much difficulty, many woeful cares.
With Ra who drives the boat, you sail and slay
The serpent Apep, enemy of day;
Each night the threatening chaos, by your spear,
Is overthrown, and night must disappear.
May he who’s foreign to what’s weak and base,
So likewise yield to darkness not his place,
But with much courage, and with strength, repel
The serpents, fiends, and demons dread and fell.

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