Indra, thou art valiant in the contest of the bold,
And liberal beyond measure in the giving forth of gold.
O warrior-king of generosity, whose hand is ever wide—
Accept our hymn of praise, for thou art bounty and thou art pride.

The miser doth behold Thy wrath and trembleth in his hall;
His hoarded wealth shall slip away, his granaries shall fall.
But he who giveth freely of his substance to the good,
Who honoureth the sacrifice and shaketh forth his wood—

To such a man Thou turnest then with countenance benign,
And pourest forth Thy blessings like the ever-flowing wine.
His flocks do multiply beyond the counting of the stones;
His herds do fatten in the field; his children fill his bones.

O generous Indra, look upon the hearts of all mankind—
The stingy soul Thou casteth down; the open-handed find
In Thee a friend most precious, who doth grant them all their prayer,
Who drinketh Soma, groweth strong, and rideth through the air.

The worshipper who offereth unto Thee with truth
Shall see his fortunes flourish in the vigor of his youth.
His enemies shall flee before the terror of his name;
His cattle crowd the meadow-land; his household knoweth fame.

So teach us, mighty Indra, this most paradox of war—
That strength and gentleness are one, that valor and much more
Do find their truest expression when the generous hand doth give.
O Thunderer, O Bounty-Lord, teach us the way to live.