Thou holdest in thy hand the vajra, that terrible weapon wrought by the divine craftsmen in the forge of the cosmos. It is no common thunderbolt, O Indra! It is the weapon of fate itself, the instrument through which the cosmic order is maintained.

The vajra singeth in thy hand. It knoweth no hesitation. It drinketh the blood of thy enemies. It breaketh whatever it toucheth. The strongest fortress crumbles before it. The hardest armor splitteth open. The mightiest shield is rendered to splinters.

When thou raisest the vajra above thy head, the very heavens hold their breath. The clouds gather in anticipation. The wind ceaseth to blow. All the worlds prepare themselves for the terrible judgment that is about to fall.

And then thou bringeth it down, and lo! The sound of that blow is heard throughout all existence. The enemy is shattered. The force is spent. And in the aftermath, order is restored. The ṛta is maintained. The cosmos continueth in its proper course.

Lightning floweth from thy hand in brilliant arcs of pure power. Where it striketh, the earth is scarred. Where it passeth, the air itself is rent asunder. The very molecules of existence tremble at the passage of thy terrible weapon.

Yet the vajra is more than mere instrument of destruction. It is also the symbol of thy absolute mastery. It declareth to all the worlds that thou alone possesseth the power to move them, to shape them, to maintain them in their proper courses.

The Maruts carry smaller thunderbolts, but the great vajra belongeth to thee alone. Even Rudra, that fearful god, respecteth the power that thou commandest. Even Varuna acknowledgeth thy supremacy when thy hand closeth upon the vajra.

We mortals gaze upon the thunderstorms and see thy weapon at work, O Indra. We hear the thunder and hear thy battle-cry. We fear thy power and honor thy name.