They imbue the bold and lovely one with manly vigor, like a bow: Joyous, they weave bright attire for the Divine Lord.
And he, made beautiful by night, plunges into nourishing food, When the sacrificer’s thoughts journey on his way, golden-hued.
We purify this joyful drink, the juice that Indra chiefly sips— What the cows once took into their mouths, and princes now sip too.
To him, as they raise the ancient psalm of praise, And sacred songs that bear the names of Gods, they invoke him.
They purify him as he drops, valiant, through the fleece sieve. They instruct him as a messenger to carry the sage’s morning prayer.
Soma, the best Cheerer, takes his seat, as they purify him in the bowls. He impregnates the cow, and sings, the Lord of Song.
He is effulgent and adorned, a God for Gods, by skilled men. He penetrates the mighty rivers, gathering all he knows.
Pressed, Indu, guided by the men, you are led to the cleaning sieve. You, Indra, who bring highest joy, sit within the bowls.