We lift our song and sacrifice to Indra, who holdeth the mace in his right hand, the driver of the pale steeds, each obeying its own command.

He standeth tall, forever shaking his beard, dealing out gifts by the might of his weapons, and by the grace of his giving.

His are the pale pair of bays, and the draught of riches held in the wooden cup.
Let Indra, slayer of Vṛtra, show forth his wealth in wealth.
Like R̥bhu, Vāja, and R̥bhukṣa, he hath mastery over his might, crying aloud: “Even the name of the Dāsa I grind away!” When his hand taketh the golden mace, he mounteth the chariot, drawn by the twin bays, riding forth with the givers of gifts—

Indra of old renown, winner of long-lasting glory, rich in rewards.

Even now he raineth down bounty upon his herds, and deweth his tawny beard with wealth.

He followeth the path that leadeth unto the honeyed draught, sweetly housed within the pressed soma.

He flingeth his beard upward, as the wind lifteth a tree.

He it was who with his word struck down
those full of wrangling speech and those of bitter tongue, yea, even a thousand foes.

Every manly deed of his we chant—
he who, like a father with his son, hath made his own strength firm.

The men of Vimada have raised this praise to thee, Indra— a song unheard before, finest among many, for thee who art giver of sweet draughts.
We know the feeding of thy strength, the hunger of the mighty— and we draw thee near as herdsmen gather their kine.

Let no soul sunder us from the bond that bindeth thee and Vimada the seer.
For we know, O god, the care thou bearest, such as kin doth bear for kin.

Grant us, we pray, thy friendship and thy fellowship.