Hark! Dost thou hear that thunder rolling across the heavens? The Maruts approach! The storm-hosts gather with glittering spears and golden armor. Their war-chariots shake the very earth beneath them. The wind precedes them, and the rain follows in their wake.

Who are these fierce ones, born of Rudra and of heaven? They are the immortal warriors, the fierce and terrible ones, the bright-gleaming hosts that fear no foe. Their hair streams in the wind like golden fire. Their eyes flash with the fury of the storm. When they come forth, the weaker gods draw back in awe.

Beautiful are the Maruts in their array! Comely their forms, adorned with gold and silver. Their weapons are keen and terrible—the lightning-bolt, the thunderstone, the cosmic spear. They wear the golden helmets of conquest. They ride upon the wind itself, swift as thought, swift as light.

The mountains hear their coming and tremble. The forests bow before their passage. The waters leap and dance at their approach. All living things feel the power of the Maruts when they ride forth in their fury.

Yet they are not cruel, these storm-hosts! Nay, for they bring the life-giving rains. They water the earth and make the crops to flourish. They scatter the demons and the dark powers. They guard the order of the cosmos against the forces of chaos.

Come now, O Maruts, to our sacrifice! Drink of the soma we have poured. Let your fury fall upon our enemies and lift your favor upon our people. Grant us victory, grant us strength, grant us the beauty and power that flows through you eternally!