Come, mighty Indra, with thy bay-hued steeds, swift as the wind that rideth over the earth. Thou drinkest soma at the pressing-stone, growing terrible in strength, thy limbs made mighty by the sweet draughts of the priests.

The demons have fallen, struck down by thy thunderbolt. The mountains bend before thy terrible wrath. Thou art the slayer of the serpent Vr̥tra, him who barred the waters—thou hast broken through his hundred fortresses, and the rivers flow free in their ancient course.

Praise be unto thee, O Indra, lord of hosts! Thy chariot, drawn by steeds of gold, rideth forth in the morning light. The earth trembleth at thy coming. Thou bringst rain upon the thirsty fields, and the cattle grow fat from the grass that springeth up.

Thine is the kingdom of heaven above, and thine the dominion of the earth below. All creatures that live do bow before thee. Thou grantest wealth to the generous giver, and stretchest forth thy hand unto the devotee who singeth thy praise.

Hear us, O mighty one! We press the soma for thee at this sacred hour. Come thou to our gathering, drink deeply, and grant us victory in battle. Grant us abundant kine, swift horses, and gold that shall not perish.

The singers call upon thee, Indra, as a child crieth unto his father. Do not turn away thine ear. Thou art the ever-faithful ally, the breaker of hostile ranks, the giver of wealth beyond measure.

Thou hast hundred hands, O strong one, and thy strength is as the strength of a thousand warriors. Thy thunderbolt, which no god can withstand, hath cleared the pathway through which mankind doth travel. The bold priest who offers thee soma with a faithful heart shall never lack for thy protection.

Come, beloved of the soma-drinkers, thou whose golden chariot roareth like the storm! We have prepared the sacred vessels. We have poured forth the sweet juice that gladdeneth thy heart. Descend from the heavens above, and sit thou in the place of honor at our sacrifice.

The bay steeds are harnessed to thy yoke. The morning breaketh forth in splendor. Lo, the priests raise up their voices in hymns of praise. Thou comest unto them as Indra, the mighty, the terrible, the giver of all blessings.

Let thy wrath fall upon our enemies, as hailstones fall upon the dry earth. Let thy strong arm crush the fortress of the foe. And grant unto us, O lord, the gift that we most desire—victory, wealth, and the favor of the immortal gods.