BEDEWED with holy oil and meetly worshipped, the Swift One competes with Surya’s light in brilliance. For him may mornings dawn without stopping who says, "Let us press Soma for Indra."
With a blazing fire and scattered grass, may he worship; as Soma presser, sing with stones arranged: And may the priest whose press-stones ring loudly, go down with his offering to the river.
This wife is approaching who loves her husband who brings a strong companion to his home. Here may his chariot gain fame, here thunder loudly, and his wheel make a thousand turns.
No troubles trouble that King in whose home Indra drinks the sharp Soma mixed with milk. With heroes he draws close, he slays the foe: Blessed, cherishing that name, he protects his people.
May he uphold peace at home and win in battle: He masters both the armies that meet together. Dear to Surya, dear to Agni, who with pressed Soma gives gifts to Indra.