As the sacred ritual unfolds, Soma is called to flow forth with great skill, likened to a yoked horse, a prize-winner who brings wealth. The pressers purify Soma for exhilaration and for magnificent glory, cleansing the newborn, tawny child—the drop of Soma—in the purifier, preparing him for the gods. At dawn, the deities approach this swift, newly born Soma, pressed with cows and adorned, ready to be offered. May our songs reach Soma, just as cows run to their calf, for he delights the heart of Indra. Soma is implored to flow for us, bringing blessing and abundance, pouring forth nourishing food and swelling the ocean of praise. Those who kindle Agni and spread the sacred grass, for whom Indra is a youthful friend, are honored. Their kindling is great, their praise abundant, their glory wide, and Indra remains their heroic companion—unconquered in battle, chosen by warriors, and strong. Indra alone bestows wealth upon the mortal who serves him, the lord, irresistible in power. Whoever invokes Indra with many offerings receives his fierce might. The question arises: when will Indra strike down the lawless, as one crushes a clod with the foot, and listen to our songs? The singers and chanters praise Indra with hymns; the priests, O hundred-powered one, have yoked him like a horse to the post. Indra ascends from peak to peak, performing wondrous deeds; he perceives the aim, and the bull moves with his troop. Indra is urged to yoke his tawny, mighty steeds, who bear him swiftly, and come to us, listening to our songs as the Soma-drinker. Agni, well-kindled, is called to bring the gods for the offering, accepting the oblation as the pure Hotar. Agni is asked to make a sacrifice rich in sweetness for our bodies among the gods, for the invocation. Narāśaṃsa, dear at the sacrifice and honey-tongued, is called for the prepared oblation. Agni, in the most pleasant chariot, is to bring the praised gods here, being the Hotar established by Manu. At sunrise, Mitra, Aryaman, Savitar, and Bhaga, sinless, bestow their favor. The destruction that is mighty is invoked, so that those who would cross our distress may be overcome. Aditi, sovereign of the shining realm, unbroken in her vow, and the great kings who rule are called upon for protection. May the Somas gladden Indra; may he grant us his favor, wielding the stone and striking down those who hate the sacred word. With his foot, Indra is asked to drive away the stingy, for none can withstand him. He is the lord of the pressed offerings and the unpressed, the king of peoples. The priests awaken for true thoughts; purified Soma enters the vessels. Skilled and dexterous, they pour him, as couples with desire. Purified, Soma is placed near the sun, embracing heaven and earth, and his beloveds, with dearest aid, do not withhold wealth from the righteous. Soma, growing and purified, rich in gifts, is invoked to bring light—where our forefathers, knowing the path and the sun, have gone forth, crossing the stone. Friends are urged to speak of nothing else, nor falter, but to praise Indra, the mighty, together with the pressed Soma, and utter hymns repeatedly. Indra is likened to a young bull, powerful, unconquered by men, dispelling hatred, bringing together and benefiting all, victorious over both sides. Sweetest songs rise up, hymns of praise, like inexhaustible chariots of Satrājit, bringing wealth. Like the Kanvas, like the Bhṛgus, like the sun, all seek the kindled flame. The eager ones magnify Indra with hymns, and the Priyamedhas sing aloud. Soma is called to move around the enemies, gaining strength, overcoming obstacles, and driving away haters as a debtor pays his debt. Soma, purified, has generated the sun by his power and the flowing milk, hastening with the cows and Purandhi. We delight in the pressed Soma, in the great sovereignty of battle; he rushes forth to the prize. Soma is asked to pour forth all around for Indra, Mitra, Pūṣan, and Bhaga. Let the bright, heavenly, nourishing stream flow for the immortal, for the great dwelling. Indra is implored to drink the pressed Soma, along with all the gods, for wisdom and skill. Like the rays of the sun eager to disperse, passions are born together and move as one; threads are woven, desires encircle, and without Indra, the vital energies do not move toward any abode. The thought is drawn forth, poured out like honey; the deep-sounding one stirs within. Amidst the thunderbolt, the purifying Soma flows forth, sweet and exhilarating for those who press, sweeping away all that covers.