O mighty Maruts, sons of the wind, your armor is of gold most bright!
Your weapons shine like burning fire; your spears are tipped with lightning.
Come forth, ye storm gods mighty and supreme, and hear the prayer we raise.
We call to you with voices loud; accept our praise and sacrifice.

The Maruts are the youth of heaven; immortal are they, eternal, strong.
Their chariots are fashioned from the clouds; their horses are the winds themselves.
They gallop swiftly through the sky, leaving trails of lightning in their wake.
The sound of their hooves doth shake the earth; their roar doth echo through the world.

Each Marut beareth in his hand a spear of lightning, bright and keen.
His armor is forged in the fire of the sun; his helm is studded with the stars.
They move as one, in perfect unison, a mighty host beyond all counting.
When Indra summoneth them forth, they come in clouds across the sky.

The rain that falleth from their presence is the blessing of the gods.
The fields do grow more fertile when the Maruts have passed over.
The cattle prosper; the crops grow tall; the harvests are abundant.
Without the Maruts' gift of water, there would be no life upon the earth.

Yet are they fearful in their wrath when angered by the wicked deeds of men.
The forests fall before their storm; the rivers overflow their banks.
The hail-stones that they hurl are large as stones that warriors throw in war.
We pray that we may never know the fullness of the Maruts' terrible rage.

O Maruts, we do offer you the finest bulls and sweetest Soma wine.
Accept our praise; grant us the blessing of thy storm and water.
Make our fields forever fertile; keep our cattle strong and full of vigor.
O sons of Rudra, mighty winds, we honor thee and hold thee dear.