Thou, O Soma, art the upholder and strengthener, mightiest in the rite.
Cleanse thyself, and set forth wealth in readiness.

Thou, who bringest rapture to noble men when pressed, art most gladdening when thou hast run thy course— a patron to Indra, by thy holy stalk.

Pressed by the stones, thou rushest, ever roaring, toward the loftiest light, the storm-born splendor.

Impelled, the drop doth speed across the sheep’s white fleece; the tawny one hath roared for the prize.

Through the fleece thou dost stream, through the songs of acclaim, through the gifts of fortune, through the herds of kine, O Soma.

Bring hither, O drop, wealth in kine and steeds— an hundredfold, yea, a thousandfold, O Soma.

The self-cleansing drops, swift across the sieve, have reached great Indra in their wandering.

The foremost sap of Soma, the primal draught, doth cleanse itself for Indra—a living draught for the living god.

The rosy fingers drive the sun aloft;
unto the self-cleansing one, dripping with sweetness, they lift their voice in song.

Pūṣan, whose steeds are goats, is our guide upon every path— he shall grant us our portion among maidens.

This Soma now doth cleanse himself, sweet as honeyed ghee, for the god with braided locks—he shall grant us our portion among maidens.

This pressed Soma, gleaming like gold-rich ghee, cleanseth himself for thee, O shining one—he shall grant us our portion among maidens.

Born of the poets’ sacred speech, O Soma, cleanse thyself in streaming flow; for thou alone among the gods dost set down treasure.

He runneth to the vats; the falcon pierceth the mail, rushing to the bowls, with ceaseless roar.

Thy sap, O Soma, when pressed, doth surge and spread through the vat; like a falcon loosed in flight, it darteth forth.

Cleanse thyself, O Soma, bringer of rapture, sweetest to mighty Indra.

They are loosed to seek the gods, as chariots hasten toward the prize.

The clear, pressed Soma-draughts, most quickening, have flowed to Vāyu, breath of the sky.

Beaten by stone, uplifted with song, thou goest to the filter, O Soma, establishing for thy singer a host of heroes.

This one, pressed and praised, leapeth the fleece, the demon-slayer surging forth.

What foe is near, what lurketh afar—
O self-cleansing one, smite it away.

He who today is cleansed by our filter—
the boundless purifier—may he cleanse us wholly.

The filter here stretched out in thy flame, O Agni, and the sacred speech—through these, make us clean.

With thy flame-born sieve, O Agni, make us pure; with the breath of holy speech, cleanse us.

With both, O Savitar—by filter and by thy goad— purify me in full.

With all three, make us pure:
thou, O Savitar, with thy mightiest goads; thou, O Soma, through thy vast domains; and thou, O Agni, through thy craftsman's art.

Let the godly host make me clean;
let the Vasus cleanse me with sight;
ye All-Gods, make me pure;
thou, Jātavedas, cleanse me.

Swell forth, flow forth, O Soma, with all thy shoots, as the highest offering unto the gods.

We draw nigh to the dear youth, ever a wonder, who waxeth strong through the holy draught, bringing him our homage.

The flame of the Unstilled One hath vanished from sight.
By cleansing thyself, bring it back, O god Soma— and the rat as well, O god Soma.

Whoso reciteth the “Self-Purifying” lays— the sap gathered by the seers— he partaketh of the whole, the sweetened draught by Mātariśvan made.

Whoso reciteth the “Self-Purifying” lays— the sap gathered by the seers— for him Sarasvatī draweth forth milk, new butter, honey, and holy water.