If it please you, announce me to the greatest god, the one who begot and made you, that a man — I, so-and-so, child of so-and-so, born of a mortal womb (of so-and-so) and of seminal fluid, and today, reborn by you from this —

The rite has a hierarchy, and it is dizzying: the sun-god just hailed as 'greatest of gods' is now asked to announce the initiate to the god who begot and made even him. Helios, king of heaven, is himself a made thing before a higher God — and the mortal is trying to send word up the chain, using the sun as his herald to the Most High. This is the theology of the whole ascent in one sentence: rank above rank, and a man threading a message through all of it. And against that cosmic vertigo the text sets brutal candor about what the man is. He does not pretend to be more than he is: born of a mortal womb and of seminal fluid — the plainest possible statement of ordinary human generation, ἰχώρ (the word Homer used for the gods' bloodless blood) here dragged down to mean semen. Only after naming the mud he is made of does he add the new thing: reborn today, by you. The immortalization is claimed honestly, on top of the mortality, not instead of it.