Hear us, O Maruts! Ye storm gods, children of Rudra, ye who ride forth upon the winds with terrible beauty! Your voices are as the thunder; your breath is as the whirlwind. Nothing can withstand your passage; nothing endureth before your might.

Ye are the liberators of the rain-clouds! Ye break apart the mountains of moisture that hang heavy in the sky, and release the waters that quench the parched earth. The farmers cry out in joy when they hear the rumbling of your approach. The fields drink deep and the grasses surge forth in verdant waves.

Ye are not cruel, O mighty Maruts, though your power be terrible. Ye act in service to the greater order. Through your violence the world is renewed. Through your destructive might, all things are refreshed and restored. Ye are as both physician and surgeon — ye cut away the old that the new may flourish.

We praise your fearless hearts! We honor your swift-moving forms! Yet we beseech you — let your fury fall not upon the righteous, but upon the wicked who dwell in darkness. Blast away the enemies who would threaten us. Strike down those who offer no worship, no sacrifice, no reverence.

Accept our hymn, O noble company! Let your favor rest upon those who sing your praise. Grant us rain in due season; grant us protection from your wrath. May we ever stand secure beneath the shelter of your awesome power.