In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O you whose hand holds the golden discus, more tender than the tenderness of flowers: while your devotees' bellies burned with dread, he [Hiraṇya] came at you with drawn sword and trembled at your form; you laid him on your red feet and destroyed him utterly with your many-coloured claws. Why then did you still bite your lip, your teeth flashing?