He is released to the right, a being of great power, taking his appointed seat. Ever vigilant, he drives away all that is hostile and demonic. With skill, he twists the tawny rope, his gaze lifted skyward, spreading the sacred grass in preparation for the priest’s chant. He bursts forth like a champion, his roar echoing mightily, casting off the darkness from his form. Shedding his covering, he returns to his father’s dwelling, making the sacred place shine with his presence. Pressed by the stones, purified in eager hands, he grows in strength, trembling in the heavens as the chant rises. He rejoices, taking his seat and prospering with the hymn; adorned by the waters, he is worshipped in the vast expanse. Around this radiant and mighty one, nourished by the mountains, honey is poured at the pillar of the house. The cows, well-invoked, gather at his udder, pressing the foremost head with their winding paths. Together, like a swift chariot, the ten sisters hurry to Aditi’s lap. He advances, seeking the hidden track of the cow, the path skillfully prepared for him. Like an eagle, he seeks his nest, the seat shaped by thought, the golden throne where the god resides. There, with the hymn, the priests seek their beloved on the sacred grass; like a noble horse, the worshipful one approaches the gods. Manifest and bright, red and a seer of the sky, strong and three-backed, he reaches the cows. With a thousand streams, he resounds far and wide, shining forth like the ancient dawns. He takes on a fierce form, his color dazzling. Wherever he rests, he breaks through barriers, moving to the waters by his own power, seeking the company of the divine. In praise, he rejoices, accompanied by the foremost cows. Like a bull circling his herds, he moves with resounding energy, following the path of the sun. The divine eagle surveys the earth below; Soma, wise and all-seeing, beholds the races of men. They cleanse the tawny one, yoking him like a red horse; Soma is mingled in the vessel with the cows. He sends forth speech, stirring the chant—of those much-praised, who are truly dear? Many wise ones speak together as they pour Soma into Indra’s belly. When men cleanse the sweet, desirable honey with ten hands, they do so with ease and care. Unwearied, he moves among the cows, beyond the beloved music of the sun’s daughter. The singers bring him favor, the wise one; he dwells with his two sisters and his kin. Stirred by men, pressed by stones, beloved on the sacred grass, the lord of cows—Soma, the priestly drop from heaven—is purified by thought for Indra, fulfilling the sacrifice for humankind. Urged by men’s arms, pressed through the filter, Soma is purified for Indra in due order. He fills the powers and thoughts at the sacrifice; the tawny one, seated on the sacred grass, drives away the foe. The wise milk the inexhaustible, thundering drop—the sage—with their skill. The cows, the thoughts, unite and return to the womb, the seat of truth. At the navel of earth, at the support of the great sky, in the waters, in the ocean, he is set. Indra’s thunderbolt, the shining bull, Soma, is purified in the heart as a delightful joy. So purify yourself, encompassing the earthly realm and seeking praise, O skillful one, for the one who stirs you. Let not those without a share, who touch the seat, deprive us of wealth—may we possess abundant, tawny riches. Come to us, O Indu, with gifts of a hundred horses, with thousands of cattle and gold. Approach, mighty and radiant one, with abundant riches; O purified one, come and settle upon our hymn. From the garlanded drop, as it is pressed, the centers resound, emerging from the womb of truth, from the navel. The Asura fashioned three heads at the beginning; the vessels of truth, skillfully made, are filled. The mighty ones, moving rightly, have stirred; the waves of the river spread forth, and the seer flows out. With streams of honey, they generate the hymn, increasing the beloved form of Indra. Those with filters surround the speech; the ancient one of their fathers guards the vow. Varuṇa has placed the great ocean beyond; the wise have sought the foundation at the beginning. With a thousand streams, they resound as if in heaven; their tongues are honeyed, moving together. His rays never cease, ever active; at every step, the binders stand as boundaries. They resound above father and mother, shining with the hymn, burning away the lawless, driving out Indra’s foes with their magic. They cleanse the dark skin from earth and sky. They resound from ancient measure, guided by the hymn’s device, the thoughts of the eager. The deaf and dumb do not speak, nor do they cross the path of truth—the evildoers remain apart. With a thousand streams, spread through the filter, the poets purify speech, wise in mind. These are Rudras, powerful and unharmed, rays self-purifying, well-seen by men. The guardian of truth, inviolable and beneficent, has placed three filters within the heart. Knowing all, he sees every world; he strikes down the unworthy and destroys the lawless. The thread of truth is stretched through the filter, at the tip of the tongue, by Varuṇa’s magic. The wise have recognized and desired it; there, the doer steps forth, unconquered. The child is born, forging a wheel for the forest; radiant and victorious, he seeks to win. He unites with the seed of heaven, nourished by milk; we seek his favor, his broad shelter and protection. The pillar of heaven, the support, is stretched out; the full drop moves everywhere. The great poet has yoked earth and sky, binding them together in harmony. The great stream, skillfully made, is Soma’s honey; the pasture of cows, Aditi’s truth, is sought. He rules the rain, the shining leader of bulls, the praised guide, the thunderer. From the sky, milk and ghee are drawn; at the navel of truth, immortality is born. The generous, in harmony, delight in him; the men, friendly, praise him with their voices. The drop, roaring, joins with the wave; the divine one nourishes the skin for mankind. He places the embryo in Aditi’s womb, by whom we gain offspring and descendants. With a thousand streams, they move together; let them be fruitful in the third region. Four navels are set in the sky, bearing offerings, with immortal ghee flowing. He takes on a white form when he desires; Soma, the generous Asura, knows the earth. By thought, he joins with the branches, harmonizing praises; he has seen the binding of heaven, the shining one. Then the white vessel, marked with cows, is pressed; the swift, victorious one moves. With their minds, the worshipers urge him on, seeking the hundredfold wealth of cows for Kakṣīvān. With waters, Soma, the juice of your pressed self, O flowing one, runs unimpeded through the filter. Cleansed by the poets, most exhilarating, become sweet for Indra to drink, O purified one. He, the beloved, is purified, skillfully prepared, bearing the names in which the mighty one grows. He ascends to the lofty chariot of the great sun, the far-seeing one turning in every direction. The tongue of truth is purified—the dear, honeyed speech, the unassailable lord of thought. The son places the most fitting name of his parents as the third in the shining realm of heaven. The shining vessels resound below, guided by men, moving within the golden container. The milkers of the immortal one have approached; on the triple-backed dawn, she shines forth. Pressed by stones, purified by thoughts, skillfully prepared, he illuminates the two mothers—earth and heaven—pure. His streaming hairs rush forth together, the streams of honey swelling day by day.