Sing unto Indra, the mighty one! The thunderbolt dwelleth in his hand. He standeth above all gods; his strength is unmatched. He drinketh the soma, and his intoxication groweth into terrible power. Who can withstand him? Who can rival his might?

Indra the warrior! He advanceth against his foes like a bull in rut, like a lion roused to fury. His roar shaketh the heavens. The very gods do tremble at his approach. Yet we sing his praises, for he is our defender, our champion, the slayer of demons and dragons.

In the ancient days, Indra did slay Vṛtra, the dragon of drought. That serpent was vast—as mountains are vast—and his coils choked off the waters of the world. All life dwindled and perished, for the rains had ceased. Then Indra rose up, seized his thunderbolt, and smote the dragon. Vṛtra burst asunder like a rotten vessel, and the waters were released. The floods rushed forth; the world was made alive again.

Thou art the protector of the Āryan people, O Indra! When our enemies march against us, thou dost go before us into battle. Thy chariot is drawn by bay horses; thy arrow never misseth its mark. The demon-hosts flee at thy approach. The fiends of darkness cower in their caves.

We sing thy praise with lifted voices! We offer thee soma—that draught of immortality which giveth strength to the strong and wisdom to the wise. Drink deep, O Indra! Let the soma flow in thy veins! Let it kindle in thee that terrible power which shaketh the world.

Grant us victory, O Indra! Grant us courage in battle. Grant us the strength to overcome our enemies. Grant us wealth and cattle and sons to inherit our lands. Be our champion forever. Thus do we praise thee, O thunderbolt-bearer, mightiest of all the gods.