The filter is spread wide for thee, O lord of hallowed utterance.
Pressing forward, thou wheelest round its limbs on every side.
The raw, whose frame hath not felt the heat, may not reach it; only the well-cooked, who hasten forth, attain it in full.

The filter of the kindled one is stretched to heaven’s course; its burning threads lie outstretched, gleaming.

His fleet-footed steeds uphold the Cleanser— they rise upon the back of heaven in shining show.

The speckled one before hath lit the Dawns; the ox, prize-seeker, beareth the worlds.
By his craft were they meted out, these makers of cunning, and the Fathers, beholding mankind, did fix the seed.

Gandharva guardeth his path aright; the unfailing one keepeth watch o’er the lineages of the gods.

The lord of the snare ensnareth the defiler in his cords.
They who do best the rite have drunk the draught of honey.

Thou bearer of the offering, thyself an offering, dost circle round the great seat of the skies, the sacred course, clad in cloud.
As king, with the filter for thy wain, thou hast mounted the prize.
With a thousand spikes dost thou win high renown.