Hark! The Maruts! The storm gods come forth, roaring, thundering, shaking the vault of heaven! Sons of Rudra they are, wild and untamed, borne upon the wind, armed with lightning and hail. How many are they? Who can number them? They swarm like locusts across the sky, their voices raised in terrible unison.

Come, O ye Maruts, with thy healing powers! Come, ye storm-dancers, ye wind-riders, ye singers of thunder! Thy approach maketh the mountains tremble. The earth trembles beneath thy passage. The waters rise in fear and adoration.

O golden-bright Maruts, shine upon us! O spear-armed warriors of the wind, grant us victory over our enemies. Let thy arrows fly upon those who hate us. Let thy tempests blow away the evil ones who plot against us in darkness. Yet spare the innocent and the righteous.

We hear thee in the roaring of the wind. We see thee in the flash of lightning. We feel thee in the cold kiss of the storm-wind. Thou art present in the breaking of the drought, in the rains that feed the growing grain. Without thee, the earth would parch and die. Without thy fury, the world would stagnate.

Come swift upon thy courses, ye Maruts! Bring abundance to our fields. Bring strength to our warriors. Bring health to our people. We praise thee with loud voices. We raise our arms to thee in supplication and in joy. Ye are terrible and beautiful both. Ye are the necessary storm, the cleansing flood, the wind that brings renewal to all things.

Hear us, O Maruts! Accept our Soma-offerings. Bless us with thy wild, untamed grace. Make us strong as the storm. Make us fierce as the wind. Make us ever joyful in thy terrible presence.