Glad of heart, he doth cleanse himself, turning unto his own dear names— names by which the ever-young doth wax in might.

The high one, far-seeing, hath mounted the chariot of the many-faced sun, that looketh every way.

As the tongue of truth, he doth purify himself in his own dear sweetness— he, the speaker, the father of this wisdom, whom no falsehood may beguile.

The son hath set a hidden name on his twain parents, and a third in the shining heights of heaven.

Bright-flashing, he hath thundered downward to the vats, led by the hands of men into the golden pail.

They that draw the milk of truth have lowed unto him; three-spined, he shineth afar, ruling o’er the dawns.

Pressed ‘neath the stones, gladdened by our thoughts, making his twain mothers—the world-halves—to shine, the flaming one hasteneth through the fleece all at once, as a honeyed stream that swelleth day by day.

Go forth on every side, O Soma, for our good; as men do cleanse thee, clothe thyself in the mingled milk.

With thy rousing draughts, rich and broad-flowing, stir Indra to grant us his gift.