O generous Indra, whose hand openeth ever unto those who honor thee! Thou art not like the niggardly gods who hoard their gifts and grudge every blessing to mankind. Nay — thou art the giver, the lord of abundance, the multiplier of herds.

When a mortal offereth thee a draught of soma, pressed from the sacred plant and mixed with honey and milk, thou regardest him with favor. Thy heart is moved with pleasure. And what doth thou then? Thou givest unto him cattle beyond counting. His herds increase as the stars increase in the night sky.

The man who sings thy praises shall find his flocks growing fatter and more numerous. His enemies shall languish while his own wealth accumulateth. His fields shall bring forth grain in abundance. His wife shall bear him sons strong and brave. All these things flow from thy generosity.

Thou art the bestower of riches! When the Dasyus are slain in battle and their cattle fall to the Āryan warrior, it is thy hand that guideth the conquest. The gold of the vanquished becomes the ornament of those who worship thee. Their horses, their cattle, their precious things — all these come to rest with those who pour the soma for thee.

But thou givest not from want, O Indra. Thou art not like a mortal who might grow poor from giving. Thy generosity is infinite, inexhaustible. The more thou givest, the more thou hast. Thy treasuries know no end.

We singers come before thee with our hymns and our offerings. Grant us herds of cattle! Grant us strong sons! Grant us victory over our enemies! Grant us the love of the gods and the respect of men! Thou alone hast the power to bestow such blessings.

In return, we shall honor thee forever, O magnificent one. We shall sing thy deeds in every age.