He that ruleth the heavens, bringeth riches, and beareth the prize to our hands with the stalk—being pressed, rush thou forth into the cleansing cloth.

Upon thy path of old, around the fleece of sheep, the beloved one driveth, spreading as a thousand streams afar.

As for him who is as a pot, give him a push; and the one who giveth not of himself—yea, shove him, O drop.
Shove him with thy strokes, thou smiter.

Bring low the boastful speech of such men, O oft-called drop—of any that dare aim their hand against us.

With a hundredfold aid for our sake, O drop—or with a thousand shining draughts— cleanse thyself, and make ready the hoard.