As he is cleansed, Soma doth rush in a thousand streams beyond the fleece, to meet with Vāyu and with Indra in holy haste.

Ye who seek aid, lift up your song unto the self-cleansing seer, the one pressed forth to chase the gods.

The thousand-sided Soma-draughts do cleanse themselves to win the boon, with hymns upon them laid, they chase the gods.

And that we too may gain the prize, purify thyself, O drop, and bring us lofty draughts of strength, a heaven-lit throng of mighty men.

Let them, by self-cleansing, yield us wealth a thousandfold, and host on host of heroes—O god-born drops now pressed.

As fleet-foot steeds are urged by charioteers, so have they surged to seize the prize— full swift across the fleecèd path.

Lowing like kine unto their calf, the sacred drops do rush; they run betwixt the priestly hands.

Glad to Indra, stirring joy, ever roaring in their course— O thou that cleansest thyself, smite down all hate.

Smite the giftless, shine forth as the sun, and purifying still, be seated on the womb of truth.