His streams break forth—the streams of the pressed bull, who in his might doth serve the gods in their due order.

The wise in rite yoke forth the team;
the song-weavers raise their voice to the one born in brightness, meet for praise.

These boons lie lightly beneath thy sway, as thou art cleansed, O Soma rich in gifts— swell thou the hymn-worthy sea.

Win all good things and cleanse thyself in the stream, O Soma; bring enmities to their end.

Shield us well from him who giveth not—
yea, from the bare sound of such a one,
when we have cast off the lash of shame.

O shining drop, as thou art washed in the stream, draw unto thee the wealth of earth and sky.

Bring hither thy bright and stormful might.