Sing forth now to the mighty one, he who taketh joy from the stalk of soma, who is near to every man and shared among all folk— to Indra, whose bold strength in battle, broad renown, and manly might are held in awe by the twin halves of the world.

Even now is he praised by his fellow, as one full of force and manhood.
Such a one is Indra—worthy of song from a man such as I.
Where chariot-poles stand ranked, where prizes are claimed, O lord of dwellings—at barriers, be they waters or foes— there dost thou find thy gladness, O champion.

Who are the men, Indra, that bring thee delight?
Who seek thy friendship on the road and strive to win thy favor?
Who stir themselves for thy royal gift,
when water is at stake, or land, or the bold might of men?

By our sacred words shalt thou wax great, O Indra.
Thou shalt be held as the rightful taker of the sacrifice at every pressing of the soma.

Thou shalt rouse the hearts of men in all their strife, and be the chiefest spell—thou, who art at home in every realm.

Come now, as the greater power, and aid the willing ones at the rite.
The peoples know the shelter of thy mighty hand.
Now, that thou grow not old and that thy strength endure, we have made strong these soma-pressings to draw thee near.

We have made strong these soma-pressings to draw thee unto us— pressings thou hast already taken into thy very self,

O son of strength.
To thy liking and for thy upholding are, one after another:
the cup, the rite, the holy spell, and the lifted word of praise.

They who shape holy spells for thee when soma is poured, that thou mightst grant goods and all that is good, O soul aflame— these shall press on with thy grace beside them, walking the path made bright by thy joy in the soma's flow.