The bearer of the sky doth cleanse himself— the sap that bringeth forth deeds, the craft of the gods, lauded by men.

The tawny one is loosed in flood, as a steed by warriors set free; he stretcheth out in full might, coursing the rivers as he willeth.

As a champion he taketh up arms, a rider striving for the sun in the stealing of kine. He stirreth Indra’s stormsome strength— the drop, sped by the deft hands of toil, is led forth by those afire with vision.

O Soma, washing thyself in wave, show forth thy might and enter into Indra’s belly. Stretch wide the twin realms for our sake, as lightning swelleth the rain-swollen sky. By the sight we have seen, deal out thy gifts again and again.

He purifieth himself—the king of all beneath the sun.
He hath overcome the seers and made truth’s voice cry aloud.
He whom the sun’s lance hath groomed is sire of all thoughts, his poet’s craft beyond the reach of any.

As a bull among kine, thou rushest round the barrel, roaring oft in the arms of the waters.

Thou cleansest thyself to bring strength to Indra, that we who call thee ally may prevail in the fray.