Indra, whom no host hath conquered in the contest of the strong,
Who standeth ever undefeated, never vanquished, never wrong—
Sing we the praise of Him whose arm no foe hath turned aside,
Whose glory spreadeth without end, whose victory none denied.

Behold the warrior-king who rideth forth in terrible array,
Whose chariot blazeth through the clouds and driveth night to day.
Each challenge that the demons hurl against His mighty throne
He casteth down as chaff before the wind—His strength alone!

The Dāsas gathered once their host, ten thousand strong and more,
With spear and arrow, shield and sword, they pressed upon His door.
But Indra laughed and raised His hand, and lo! they fell like rain,
Their remnants scattered far and wide, their glory turned to pain.

No adversary yet hath stood before the Thunderer's gaze;
No foe hath matched His fury or withstood His righteous blaze.
The very mountains bow before His unconquerable might,
And all creation trembleth at the terror of His sight.

O Indra, shield of all the good, destroyer of the base,
Thou whose deeds are infinite, thou whose power none can face—
Accept our hymn of gratitude, our praise without an end,
For thou art strength eternal, thou art warrior and friend.