Rush on, sweep wide in conquering circles, scattering every hindrance. As faithful surety for our debts, speed on to master all spite and rancour.

Because we laud thee, Soma, pressed for the mighty reward, king amid the clash, thou leapest headlong toward the trophies, self-cleansing and bold.

For thou hast fathered the sun itself, O stainless Flow, spreading thy milky light by artful craft, hastening beside Abundance, lively with her kine.

Here among mortal kind, yet on the firm ground of Truth, thou hast begotten the deathless draught. Ever thou streamest, unwearied, toward the prize.

By thy renown thou hast bored ever nearer the bounty that never fails men, as to some hidden fount, borne aloft in priestly hands like spoil gathered by a bow-armed victor.

Therefore, beholding friendship with the radiant Giver, the heavenly folk shouted for joy. As Savitar reveals the precious, so he parts the fleece and shows the hidden gold.

In thee, Soma, the first grass-twisting sages set their inspired wit, seeking the grand wage of triumph and lasting fame. Stir now our own insight, brave one, toward heroic power.

From heaven’s ancient richness, sweet as first milk, they drew thee forth from the deepest sky; and in unison they hailed young Indra at his birth.

Now, self-bright Drop, by thy greatness thou climbest beyond these twin worlds and every creature in them; like the prime bull amid the herd, thou stretchest thine authority over all.

Purified within the woollen fleece, Soma streams like a frolicsome child— the drop of a thousand rills and a hundred prizes.

Honey-rich, truth-laden wave, thou clarifiest thyself for Indra— thou who seizest the prize, widenest the space, and breatheth life.

Cleanse thyself, beating back the combat-eager, repelling fiends and perilous plunges; armed with sure weapons and victorious over every rival, O Soma.