May our hymns bring you great joy, Thunderer. Drive away the foes of prayer.
Crush with your foot the stingy ones who bring no offerings. You are mighty, none can match you.
You are the lord of Soma pressed, and Soma pressed is also yours. You are the ruler of the people.
Come, go to heaven and listen to the prayers of men. You fill both the skies and the earth.
Even that mountain with its rocky peaks, held within hundreds and thousands, you broke through for your worshippers.
We call on you every day and night to taste the Soma juice. Fulfill our hearts’ desire.
Where is that ever-young bull, strong-necked and never bent? What Brahman nourishes it?
To whose libation does the bull turn with pleasure there? Who delights in Indra now?
Whom, Vṛtra-slayer, did your gifts and heroic powers accompany? Who is your dearest in praise?
For you among men, among the Pūrus, this Soma is offered. Hurry here and drink it.
This grows by Soma and Śaryaṇāvān, dear to you, in Ārjīkīya, it cheers you best.
Hurry here and drink this for today’s generosity, delightful for your eager draught.