1 Spread is thy cleansing filter, O Lord of Prayer: 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.

2 High in the seat of heaven is spread the sieve of the Scorcher: 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.

3 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 forebears who behold mankind laid down the germ.

4 Verily the Guardian protects his dwelling-place; wondrous, he guards the generations of the righteous.

Lord of the snare, he takes the foeman with the snare: those who are most devout have gained a share of sweetness.

5 Rich in offerings, robed in cloud, thou compassest offering, worship, the mighty seat of the righteous.

King, on thy chariot-sieve thou goest up to war, and with a thousand weapons winnest lofty fame.