This Soma is bruised for thee, O Indra—it cleanseth itself for thy delight.
Drink thou of it—of that which thou hast made thine own, which thou hast chosen, the drop, the draught, Soma, that is yoked for rapture.

It is harnessed, as a chariot mighty in war, great in the winning of wealth.
Therefore all the offspring of Nahus, standing upright beside the wooden bowl, cry aloud at his triumph o'er the sun.

Thou—like fleet Vāyu with his coursers—keepest thy way as thou wilt, like the Nāsatyas art thou most swift to hearken, like the Lord of Treasure dost thou bring all things fair; like Pūṣan, thou speedest the thought that sees true, O Soma.

Thou, like Indra, workest great wonders—breaker of keeps, smiter of bonds.
As Pedu’s steed smiteth serpent-named foes, so smitest thou every Dasyu, O Soma.

He, like Agni let loose in wood, is poured forth in the wooden bowl, and spreads himself at will in the flowing streams.

As men at strife trample in tumult, so doth this mighty one thunder— Soma, self-cleansed, lifts up a swelling wave.

These Soma-streams rush down o’er the sheep’s white fleece, like heaven’s own buckets that bear the rains from cloud to earth— they flow at will to the tubs when pressed, as rivers hasten to the sea.

Stormful as the host of Maruts, purify thyself, shielded from spite as that high-born kin in heaven.

Hasten to be our good, wave-rich as waters, like a rite that winneth the strife of hosts.

Thine are the dooms of King Varuṇa;
thine is his lofty, secret realm, O Soma.
Thou glowest bright and clean as Mitra beloved; thou art sought for craft like Aryaman, O Soma.