The thunderbolt! O terrible and glorious tool of war,
Forged in the smithy of the sky by Tvaṣṭṛ's hand of power and more—
The Āditya gave it shape; the gods did set it bright,
And Indra took it in His grip, that weapon of His might.

What is this vajra, golden-hued, that cleaveth through the air?
'Tis lightning fast and thunder-loud, beyond all mortal prayer.
When Indra hurl'd it at the breast of Vṛtra, dark and fell,
The titan-serpent reel'd and died—One strike! He broke the spell.

The rod doth quiver in His hand like serpent wrath uncoiled;
Its radiance filleth heaven's vault; by neither rust nor spoil
Can it be tarnished or reduced. 'Tis indestructible as fate,
Eternal as the Thunderer, inexorable, first-rate.

Each time the arm of Indra lifts the vajra to the sky,
The clouds do rupture into rain, and all the Dāsas cry
In agony and terror as the weapon falleth down—
No fortress wall, no shield, no spell can turn it from its crown.

The very air doth vibrate with the sound of its descent;
The earth doth quake; the waters roar; all nature is intent
Upon the terrible display of power without peer.
O vajra, golden instrument of victory and fear!

Come forth, O Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt supreme,
And let Thy weapon shine upon the world like solar gleam.
For those who worship Thee in truth shall never taste defeat—
The vajra guardeth all the good and maketh all things sweet.