Thou of lofty thought, thou swiftly runnest thy rounds through thine own dear realm, unto the place where men shall cry, “Lo, the gods are here!”

Thou makest ready what lacked its full shaping, ordering the draughts for mortal folk; down poureth the rain from heaven on every side.

Once pressed, he passeth through the strainer, gaining brightness by his strength; he casteth his gaze abroad and bringeth forth broad-shining light.

Behold him here—
he who hasteneth his course and hath flowed far and wide from the heavens, into the cloth, into the swelling stream.

Luring from afar, and drawing nigh as well, the pressed one is poured as honey for Indra’s joy.

Together they have thundered;
they drive the tawny one with the stones, saying, “Abide now in the womb of truth.”