O Indra, thou lord of a hundred blessings! How matchless is thy thirst, how mighty thy appetite! No drink can equal the soma that thou drinkest; no feast doth satisfy thee as doth the pressed juice of the sacred plant.

Thou drinkest as a river drinketh the rain. Thou drinkest as the earth drinketh the morning dew. Thou drinkest as the fire drinketh the wood cast into its flames. Yet thy thirst is never quenched, nor thy strength diminished. Rather, with every draught, thy power groweth greater.

When thou hast drunk the soma to the full, thy voice shaketh the heavens. Thy laughter thundereth across the sky. Thy very breath striketh down the enemies of the gods. Thou art invincible in that hour, unconquerable, supreme.

The Kāṇvas gather at the pressing-stone; they beat the drum of warning; they prepare the sacred space. "Indra cometh!" they cry. "The mighty one drinketh! Make ready the vessels! Fill them to the brim with the foam-crowned juice!"

The priests work with fevered haste, pressing the stalks beneath their feet, grinding them against the stone, coaxing forth the precious liquid. They pour it into vessels wrought of wood and copper. The aroma riseth to heaven like incense ascending from a thousand altars.

"Drink, O Indra!" they cry. "Drink and grow strong! Drink and prepare for battle! The demons gather their forces; the darkness presseth close. We need thy strength, O mighty one. We need thy courage. We need thy terrible wrath to be kindled against our foes!"

And thou, O Indra, drinkest! Thou drinkest the first draught, and the gods do cower. Thou drinkest the second, and the demons begin to flee. Thou drinkest the third, and thy power becometh infinite. Thy arms grow long as the earth; thy chest groweth broad as the sky; thy strength becometh terrible to behold.

Then thou speedest forth to battle, riding in thy chariot drawn by thy bay steeds, thy thunderbolt raised high. The demons see thee coming and they scatter like leaves before the storm. Their fortresses crumble. Their magic spells avail them nothing. Their tricks and stratagems are as naught against thy might.

One blow of thy thunderbolt! The demon army is routed. Another blow! The sorcerers are cast down. A third blow! Their stronghold is shattered, and the survivors flee shrieking into the darkness.

O Indra, thou art the strength of the strong! Thou art the courage of the courageous! Thou art the warrior whom all warriors do admire. The greatest champions of old did invoke thy name before they went into battle. They drank of the soma as thou dost drink; they called upon thee with fervent hearts.

And thou didst hear them, O mighty one! Thou didst come to their aid! Thou didst grant them victory! The singers have composed hymns in honor of their triumphs, and those hymns do resound through the ages, proclaiming thy faithfulness to those who honor thee.

We, the Kāṇvas, also do call upon thee! We press the soma and we sing thy praise. Accept our offering, O lord of a hundred blessings! Drink of this juice that we have prepared with our own hands. Grant unto us thy friendship and thy protection. And when we go forth to battle, go thou before us, that our enemies may be scattered and our victory assured.