I grasp you when power and strength begin to rise: sprinkle you, Indra and the Maruts, Heaven and Earth, That Day and Night, in every hall of sacrifice, may attend on us and bless us when they first appear.
Pour out the libation, most excellent of all: the Pressing-stone is grasped like a hand-guided steed. So may it win the valor that subdues the foe, and the swift horse's might that brings abundant wealth.
The juice that this Stone pours out removes our defects, just as it did in old times to bring prosperity to man. At sacrifices they established holy rites on Tvaṣṭar's milk-blended juice bright with the hue of steeds.
Drive away the treacherous demons far from us: keep Nirrti away and banish poverty. Pour forth riches for us with troops of heroic sons, and bear up, O Stones, the song that visits the gods.
To you who are mightier than the heavens themselves, who finish your task with more than Vibhvan's speed, More swiftly than Vāyu seize the Soma juice, better than Agni give us food, to you I sing.
Stirred be the glorious Stones: let it press out the juice, the Stone with heavenly song that reaches up to heaven, There where the men draw forth the mead for which they long, sending their voices around in rivalry of speed.
The Stones press out the Soma, swift as charioteers, and, eager for the spoils, drain forth its sap To fill the beaker, they exhaust the udder's store, as the men purify offerings with their lips.
You, skilled men, have been most adept in your work, even you, O Stones who pressed Soma for Indra's drink. May all of you have good fortune in the Heavenly Race, and all your treasures in the earthly worshipper.