O Indra, thou who drinkest deep the soma till thy power doth swell,
The sacred drink is poured for thee in vessels vast as mountain peaks.
Thy throat doth widen to receive the streams of this most precious wine.

No measure hath the bounty that doth flow into thy outstretched hand.
The warriors marvel at thy thirst, the gods themselves do shake with awe.
What mortal man could drink as thou dost drink and yet remain upright?

Thy thunderbolt, that terrible and bright and keen weapon of thine hand,
Doth smash to bits the forts of stone, it shattereth the pride of foes.
There is no obstacle that can withstand the force of thy great blow.

With it thou didst strike down the demons in the days of ancient time.
Thou brakest through the mountains high and piercest every clouded veil.
The enemies of gods did fall beneath thy weapon's awesome stroke.

Remember, O great Indra, all the deeds of old that thou didst do.
In those far times thou didst arise and save the gods from certain doom.
We call upon thee now as thou didst answer in the days of old.

With thy great strength thou hast upheld the heavens and the vault above.
The earth doth rest upon thy back, yet thou dost bear the weight with ease.
All creatures live and breathe because of thee, the sustainer of the world.

Now grant unto us once again the bounty that thou didst bestow.
Pour forth thy riches as of old upon the singers at thy shrine.
We ask not for the riches of the misers or the hoarded gold.
Give us the abundance that a generous god doth give to those who praise.