SPREAD is thy cleansing filter, Soma: as Prince, thou enterest its limbs from every side.

The raw, whose mass hath not been heated gains not this: they only which are dressed, which bear, attain to it.

High in the seat of Heaven is spread the Scorcher's sieve: its threads are standing separate, glittering with light. The Swift Ones favour him who purifieth this: with consciousness they stand upon the height of Heaven.

The foremost spotted Steer hath made the Mornings shine, and yearning after strength sustains all things that be. By his high wisdom have the mighty Sages wrought: the Fathers who behold mankind laid down the germ,

Gandharva verily protects his dwellingplace; Wondrous, he guards the generations of the Devas. Lord of the snare, he takes the foeman with the snare: those who are most devout have gained a share of meath.

Rich in oblations! robed in cloud, thou corapassest oblation, offering, the mighty seat of Devas. King, on thy chariot-sieve thou goest up to war, and with a thousand weapons winnest lofty fame.