Thy blasts are risen, O bearer of the stone, sundering the might of fiends.
Cast aside thine foes that compass thee round.

With this wise reckoning, striking bold when chariots meet and gain is sought, I shall lift my song with a heart unafraid.

The laws of this self-cleansing one may not be withstood by the witless.
Lay low him who lifteth his hand against thee.

Into the rivers they cast him who stirreth rapture— the tawny seeker of reward, the drop that bringeth joy to Indra.