I place my trust in thy foremost wrath of war— for thou didst shatter Vṛtra and toil at the work of men; for unto thee the twin world-halves do bow, and even Earth doth quake beneath thy storm,

O thou that wieldest the stone.

Thou, spotless one, with cunning didst unmake the cunning foe, and broke him in thy fame-seeking might.

The noble turn to thee in their striving for kine, to thee, when the time of the offering draweth nigh.

Take thy joy in these givers, thou oft-called and mighty, these who have won thy favor and grown strong by thy gift.

They sing to thee, the taker of spoils,
when kindred stand in peril, in the ring of foes,
at the winning of wisdom, when high stakes lie upon the field.

That man shall find joy in gain, whose burden is light to bear,
who knoweth that thy rapture must be stirred.
With thee as his strength, O giver of plenty, he who keepeth the holy rite swiftly carrieth off the prize and the spoil, his band beside him.

Thou, being sung, dost widen the way for thy folk in thy greatness, O bounteous one—show forth thy rule over riches.

Thou art to us a friend, as crafty as Varuṇa, a sharer of goods as one who dealeth bread— a marvel thou art.