Sprinkle now the sacred draught—the pressed and potent Soma—high as the loftiest offering; for the virile god, plunging through the waters, hath the priest with stones compelled it forth.

Being strained through sheep-soft fleece, flow thou about us, unfoolable and rich of fragrance; fresh from the watery press we thrill beneath thy stalk, preparing thee with kine as noblest oblation.

All about the eye may gaze upon thee—joy of gods, far-seeing drop, full freight of firm resolve.

O Soma, while thou art purified in torrent, robing thyself in waters, thou bestowest treasure; here upon truth’s own womb thou sittest, a golden font, O god.

Milking heaven’s udder of its honeyed sweetness, thou regainest thine ancient throne. The prize-winner darts to the boon worth asking, wide-eyed and rinsed by mortal hands.

While thou art laved in fleecy wool, wakeful and beloved, thou becamest a seer of fire-bright song, chief of the Aṅgirases; steep our rite in honey.

Rewarding Soma shines, best pathfinder, inspired, all-beholding sage; thou art the poet who most pursueth gods—thou madest the Sun ascend in heaven.

Pressed by the stones upon the backs of sheep, Soma drives his flood as with a golden courser, delighting all with his shining stream.

With kine dost thou mingle by the river’s edge; with milked-out flows runs Soma, slipping into pens as rivers glide to sea; the rousing draught wells for our delight.

Across the fleeces where the stones have bruised thee, tawny one, thy course is here; like a warrior into fortress walls thou plungest into twin cups, thine seat set deep in wooden womb.

Groomed upon the ewe’s fine hairs, as racers for the prize, self-cleansing Soma must be cheered by minds aflame, by bards of burning verse.

As a flood-swollen river, thou hast swelled with milk of plant to chase the gods, wakeful as an enrapturing cup toward the honey-dripping vat.

Sweet one, thou clokest thyself in silver sheen to be caressed as a darling son; the toilers guide thee in their two hands as a chariot plunging toward the rivers.

These Soma juices—the life-fires—clarify into joy upon joy: thinkers they are, bringing ecstasy, finding the sun upon the ocean’s gleam.

Self-purged, thou crossest the sea with thine own wave, king and god, high-truth in motion, rushing by the due of Mitra and Varuṇa, thrust aloft—holiest decree.

Led by men, delightful, far-seeing lord of ocean’s realm, thou movest on.

For Indra and the Maruts, Soma gladdening spreads; a thousand streams o’erleap the fleece, while the life-fires tend thee.

In the cup made clean, a poet begetting thought, thou rejoicest among the gods; robed in waters, wrapped in kine as choicest cloth, thou sittest secure in wooden bowers.

Daily, O drop, I rejoice in thy fellowship; many a burden, brown One, drags me earthward—o’erleap these hindrances.

By night and by day, Soma, I cling to thy udder; like birds we have flown beyond the sun that scorcheth.

While thou art groomed, deft spirit, thou drivest thine utterance upon the sea; self-pure, thou rushest toward vast, yearned-for, golden wealth.

Shorn upon the sheep’s wool, cleansing thyself, as a bull thou roar’st into the wooden hold; to parley with gods thou speedest, anointed with kine.

Cleanse thyself to grasp the prize, aiming at every craft of song; Soma, glad heart of gods, thou first didst spread the sea before them.

Purge through the realms of earth and heaven in keeping with thine ordinances; far-seeing, the inspired compel thee forward, bright with thought and vision.

Set free across the strainer’s steam, the racing coursers fit for Indra and the Maruts speed toward wisdom and welcome fare.

Robed in waters, the drop circles the vat, urged on by pressing hands; begetting light, he makes the glad kine low, folding the cows as in a fresh-wrought cloak.