Sing, O my soul, to Indra crowned with gold, to him whose arm doth break the demon's hold. The strong one, mighty in the midday heat, hath drunk the Soma sweet, and grown complete.

With soma cups we call upon the king, the lord of storms, the thunder-wielder strong. His stallions race across the sky with fire; his roar doth shake the earth and lift hearts higher. The vajra gleams within his grasping hand — by it he hath destroyed what evil plann'd.

The mountains tremble at his voice; the clouds obey his choice. He drinks the sacred juice and spreads his might o'er all the world from morn to falling night. His belly swells with soma's mystic power; he grows most mighty in that blessed hour.

O thou who art the thunderer and bold, the keeper of the treasures manifold! Grant us the riches that thy hand doth hold. Increase our cattle, make our seeds take root. Give us strong sons to bring forth virtuous fruit.

We priests have pressed the soma for thy sake, and poured the mead into the sacred lake. Accept our offerings, O mighty one; let thy great deeds be sung, thy victories won. Come to our fires, drink deep of what we pour; grant us thy blessings evermore.

Through three expanses thou dost stretch thy form — the earth below, the sky, the mighty storm. Thy hundredfold dominion is secure; thy glory shineth bright, eternal, pure. We mortals here below do sing thy praise, and lift our voices through our nights and days.