Hail to thee, O Indra, mightiest of the gods! Thy strength shattereth the demon strongholds, and thy steeds do run swift as the wind itself.

O drinker of the soma-draughts most copious, thou who drinkest lakes full to the brim, and yet thy thirst remaineth unquenched—sing we thy praise!

The Kāṇvas do exalt thee, O golden-bodied one, for thou art the giver of their cattle and their gold, thou art their champion in the fray.

Thy two bay steeds pull thy golden chariot across the heavens, their eyes flash like lightning, their manes stream with light as they bear thee forth.

In thy right hand thou holdest the thunderbolt, that dread and mighty weapon, the slayer of demons, the breaker of ramparts. It hath no equal beneath the sky.

When thou didst smite the demon Vṛtra in the mountainous deep, the waters were loosed, the streams ran forth, and the earth drank deep of the rains that thou didst bring.

Thou art the lord of the herds, O Indra, and the cattle low to thee as thou passest by their pastures. Thou givest them increase and plenty.

The soma-plants are pressed in thy honour, the sacred draughts are made ready, the butter burneth upon the altar—come, O Mighty One, and receive our gifts!

Thy gifts are numberless, O Bountiful God. Thou givest cattle, thou givest gold, thou givest the broad domain to those who call upon thee with praise.

The warriors gather round thee, O Indra, seeking thy favour and the strength of thy arm. Thou leadest them to victory against their foes.

Thy name shineth like the sun itself, and the sound of thy deeds doth echo through all the three worlds. The gods themselves do bow before thy majesty.

O Thou who art clothed in light, we beseech thee—grant unto us the blessings thou bestowest upon those who worship thee with a faithful heart.

The Kāṇvas sing thy praises, O Indra, as the morning birds do sing when the sun appeareth above the eastern hills.

Thy thunderbolt hath drunk the blood of countless demons who sought to darken the heavens and bring ruin upon the worlds of men.

O God of the Golden Realm, accept our offerings, and let thy favour shine upon us as the sun shineth upon the awakening earth.

The sacrificial fires crackle and roar, the priests do chant the sacred hymns, the soma floweth like a river—come thou and feast upon our worship!

Indra, Indra! The name is thunder, the name is victory, the name is the eternal strength that holdeth up the worlds against the darkness.

We cry out unto thee across the mountains and the valleys, our voices are carried upon the wind to thy heavenly seat: accept us, O Mighty One, accept our praise!