Cleanse thyself—O thou who gladdenest the gods, unfettered, who win the waters— for Indra, for Varuṇa, for Vāyu.
Make for us this day a broad expanse, with well-being in its train.
Lift thy voice to the sky-folk in their spacious hall.

He who hath mounted the worlds, the deathless Soma, floweth round them all.

Binding and loosing with might to gain the upper hand, the drop goeth forth with the gods, as the sun with the dawn.

He who is loosed with the kine upon the herbs, flourishing beneath the gods’ good favor, drawing gifts near— he cleanseth himself with lightnings, pressed in a shining stream:
Soma, who maketh glad Indra and the heavenly host.

This very Soma now purifieth himself, winner of thousands, rousing the strong speech that waketh with the dawn.

The drop stirreth the sea with his winds; he sitteth in Indra’s heart within the vats.

The kine do blend this Soma with milk, he who is waxen strong by milk—
with thought they blend him, he who seeketh the sun.
Winning the prize, drawing forth fruit,
the sap doth cleanse himself—
a seer in rapture, a wise bard by his wordcraft, he who taketh joy in the sun.