He who is groomed like a well-fed steed, milk-blent for gladness, the sweet and stirring one— him we array in raiment of song.

All our hymns, in longing born, adorn him as of old,
the drop that Indra shall quaff with joy.

While he is strained, he maketh his way— the gladsome Soma, decked in praise, with the poet Medhyātithi’s god-breathed verse.

O Soma, self-cleansing stream, seek out for us fair treasure—
a wealth of a thousand gleams, O shining draught.

Like a steed that runs for the prize, he whinnies in the strainer, o’erflowing its bounds, seeking the gods with eager might.

Cleanse thyself for glory’s sake, for the uplifting of the seer whose voice exalts thee.
Soma, grant unto us a host of heroes.