Cleanse thyself, O Soma, in the fairest and most gladdening stream, when thou art pressed for Indra's draught.

Breaker of fiends, held by all the lands in common, he hath come to rest upon the hammered womb of metal, his rightful seat, borne by the wooden vessel.

Be thou the noblest founder of the broad kingdom, most free in giving, mightiest in sundering every hindrance.

Bring unto us the riches of the generous.

Hasten with thy stalk to chase the mighty gods, unto the prize of triumph and the name of renown.

To thee do we draw nigh—for this is ever our daily seeking.
O shining drop, our longings are folded in thee.

The Sun’s own Daughter maketh thee pure, as thou whirlest in thy course, strained through the golden fleece, in measure that faileth not.

The tender ones lay hold of thee in the time of clash— the ten maidens, sisters of hand, upon the fated day.

The unwed maids drive thee forth, as they blow the skin of wind, thee, thrice-sweet wild honey.

And thee the holy kine prepare, as their very youngling— the soma—for Indra's drink.

For the rapture of this very draught, doth Indra, the mighty, shatter all that bars the way, and raineth down his gifts.