O drop, thou rushest forth to spread us wide, like a river swelling with wave, unbridled, bearing thyself unto the gods.

Soma is stirred in far-off reaches, gladdened by thought, borne on the breath of the seer’s insight—Soma, the poet divine, flowing in his stream.

He, ever wakeful ‘midst the gods, goeth down, pressed through the straining cloth.
Soma the boundless maketh his holy path.

Make thyself pure for us, in longing for reward; make thine the cherished rite.

The priest, with holy grass in hand, calleth thee hither.

He whose champions are seers, whose might waxeth ever for Bhaga, for Vāyu—

Soma shall lead us unto the gods.

Thou who findest the will, and best discernest the way— to gift us goods this very day, win thou the meed and the high praise.