O mighty Indra, whom the gods made chief among all powers! Soma-drinker, the strong-armed one who breaketh the enemy's chariot and smasheth his citadel — we call upon thee now. Thou art the lord of battles, the golden-armed, the wielder of the thunderbolt.

What praise can match thy deeds, O Indra? When thou drinkest the soma pressed by mortal hands, thy body swelleth, thy sinews tighten, thy heart burneth with the fire of cosmic fury. Thou art no weakling god, timid or hesitant. Nay — thou art muscular, vast as a mountain, thy shoulders broad as the sky itself.

The soma maketh thee invincible. In that cup of pressed juice, the strength of ten thousand warriors pooleth. Thou drinkest deep, and lo — the heavens tremble. The earth coweth beneath thy foot. Even the mighty serpent Vṛtra feareth thee when thou art empowered thus.

We singers praise thy victory. We praise thy generosity — for thou givest cattle to the faithful, gold to those who offer thee libations. Thou art no miserly god. What thou winnest in battle, thou dividest among thy worshippers. The riches of the slain Dasyus flow to our herds.

Come to us, O Indra, in this moment. Drink the soma that we have pressed. Let thy sinews swell. Let thy heart blaze. Come as the protector of those who invoke thee, as the slayer of our foes, as the guardian of the Āryan peoples. We depend upon thy strength.

The mortal who honoreth thee with offerings shall not perish. His enemies shall be scattered as dust before the wind. Thou art our shield, our fortress, our eternal champion.