They from the spouting drop have sounded at the rim: ships speed together to the place of sacrifice. That Asura has formed, to seize, three lofty heights. The ships of truth have borne the pious man across.
The strong steeds gather, stirring themselves; over the stream’s wave, the friends send forth the song. Enveloping the hymn, with flowing streams of meath, Indra’s dear body they cause to grow in strength.
With sanctifying gear they sit around the song; their ancient Father guards their holy work from harm. Varuṇa has spread the mighty sea of air. Sages held him in sustaining floods.
Sweet-tongued, exhaustless, they send their voices together, in heaven’s vault that pours a thousand streams. His wildly restless warders never close an eye; in every place are found the bonds that bind man last.
Over Sire and Mother they roar in unison, bright with the verse of praise, burning up riteless men, Blowing away with supernatural might from earth and from the heavens the swarthy skin which Indra hates.
Those which, as guides of song and counsellors of speed, were manifested from their ancient dwelling place— From these the eyeless and the deaf have turned aside: the wicked travel not the pathway of the Law.
When the filter with a thousand streams is stretched, thoughtful sages purify their song therein. Bright-coloured are their spies, vigorous, void of guile, excellent, fair to see, beholders of mankind.
Guardian of Law, most wise, he may not be deceived: three Purifiers has he set within his heart. With wisdom he beholds all creatures that exist: he drives into the pit the hated riteliess ones.
The thread of sacrifice spun in the cleansing sieve, on Varuṇa’s tongue-tip, by supernatural might— This, by their striving, have the prudent ones attained: he who hath not this power shall sink into the pit.