O Soma, thou mighty bull, make thyself pure in the gladdening stream as thou seekest the gods, as thou seekest us, through the wool of the sheep.

Toward this rapture, this joy upon joy, O golden drop, flow forth as Indra— and hasten toward the steeds that win the prize.

Rush thou into the filter of old, into that joy of ages past, and toward the reward of triumph and the name that endureth.

In their course, the drops, the shining drops, have hastened as waters running down a hill.

Purged and bright, they have come unto Indra.

He whom ten maidens tend, as they would a steed fit for the prize, he danceth in the wooden bowl, beyond the sheep's soft fleece.

That bold and sapful draught—blend it with the kine, for rapture’s sake, for the gods that seek, the soma pressed and ready to be seized.

The god for the god—being pressed, he cleanseth himself in the stream for Indra’s sake, when Indra filleth the milk to fullness.

He, the shape of the rite itself, the soma that is pressed, maketh himself pure in swiftness.

He guardeth the craft of the seers of old.

And thus, as thou art purged and seekest Indra, that he may chase delight, O thou most gladsome, thou makest the hidden songs thine own.