Thrice seven milk-kine have poured for him the true draught, drawn from the farthest, foremost heaven.

He clad himself in the four fair worlds as raiment, waxing in might by the strength of truths and songs.

To gain his share of the dear undying one, by craft of verse he sundered Heaven from Earth.

He robes himself in sharp-shining waters, when, by his fame, the streams discern his seat.

Let his deathless, unwavering beacons overspread both tribes— godkind and mankind— those flames whereby both divine and mortal powers are made clean.
For this, the zealous have hailed him their king.

Groomed by the ten deft hands, he goeth forth to bellow mid the mothers of the middle realm.

Upholding the charge of the holy undying one, his gaze upon mortals, he beholdeth both kin: gods and men.

Ever tended, thrust between the twin world-halves, he awakens to feed mighty Indra.

With storming breath the bull driveth off ill thoughts, his aim ever fixed, like a marksman, upon rich spoil.

The ruddy one, made plain to sight, runneth to his two mothers with roar on roar, like the cry of the Maruts.
He hath known the first truth—realm of the sun's bright blaze— and chooseth it for his high praise.

The dread bull shouteth aloud, whetting his golden horns, broad of eye.

Soma sitteth upon his well-shaped womb.
His hide is wrought of cattle, his cloak of sheep’s fleece.

Glistering, he washeth clean his spotless frame.
The tawny one descendeth upon the sheep’s back, well-pleasing to Mitra, to Varuṇa, and to Vāyu.

The honey they brew is made threefold by the skilled.

Purify thyself as bull, O Soma, to seek the gods.
Enter into the heart of Indra, the hold of Soma.
Before affliction riseth, bear us o’er our straits, for he who knoweth the land pointeth the road to the seeker.

Like a yoked team urged on, speed thou to the prize.
O drop, make thyself clean within Indra’s belly.
Bear us across, as in a boat o’er stream, for thou knowest the way. Be as a champion in strife— redeem us from shame.