In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O Cakrapāṇi, whose shoulders are like great mountains, O hero whose bow is Śārṅga: as you churned the sea, drew out the nectar and filled the pitcher, so, my body melting, I opened my mouth, drank you in and filled myself with you. Even Death [Yama], who deals cruel punishment, cannot come near wherever my sceptre runs.