Sing unto Indra, the lord of might, for his strength is without measure. The earth doth tremble at his coming; the very stones do cry out in his praise. Who among the gods hath deeds like unto his?

With the thunderbolt in his hand, he rideth forth to battle. The demons flee before him; their strongholds crumble into dust. No foe can stand against the Bull of Heaven.

The Soma floweth for Indra alone. The priests do press it with all their hearts, that they might make him glad. Come, O Thunderer, and drink of this draught! Let thy belly be filled with the sweet juice!

We call upon thee, O Mighty One, for thou art the friend of the singer. Thou dost raise up the lowly; thou dost strengthen the weak. In thy hands rests the fate of all creatures.

Accept our hymn, O Indra! Hear the voices of thy servants! We praise thee with our whole hearts, and we shall continue to praise thee forever and ever.