This god, the deathless one, flieth as a bird on the wing, hasting toward the wooden cups to take his seat.

This god, begotten of sacred song, darteth through the fleece's maze, cleansing himself, and not to be beguiled.

This god, the tawny-hued, in his cleansing, is arrayed for the prize by truth-seeking minstrels who adore him.

As a champion with his loyal band, he striveth to gain all things fair, while he maketh himself pure.

This god rideth forth in his chariot; in his cleansing he showeth his grace, and maketh known his voice with might.

Praised by the seers enflamed with breath divine, the god doth plunge through waters, laying up treasure for the godly man.

He streaketh through the heavens, his stream coursing the airy ways,
neighing full oft as he purifieth himself.

Lo, he hath sped across the sky, through the windswept ways, and none may bind him— fit in the rite as he maketh himself pure.

Pressed as in days of old, in the way of his birth, the god pressed for the gods, the tawny one rusheth into the straining fleece.

And lo, this one, full of power, bringeth forth the drink that refreshes even as he is born, and is cleansed in the flowing stream.