Come unto us, O Maruts, mighty sons of Rudra the Terrible! Come with your chariots bright-yoked, with your steeds fleet as winds. Ye who dwell in the mountain fastnesses, ye riders of the clouds—hear the voice of the sacrifice!

The earth trembles at your coming. The mountains bow before your passage. Your arms gleam golden in the dawn-light, your spears flash terrible and bright. O warriors of the storm, with voices like the thunder's roll, accept our hymn, accept our praise!

Ye are the heroes born of Rudra's wrath, the tempest-gods, the dancers in the lightning flash. Your chariots roar through heaven, drawn by steeds that gallop swift as thought. Your ornaments are gold and burnished bronze; your bodies shine with an inner flame that mortal eyes can scarce endure.

Ye come clothed in lightning-robes, your crown of winds upon your brows. Terrible are ye to behold, beautiful beyond all telling! Ye are the young warriors, the bold ones, the fierce companions of the mighty Indra in his war against the dragon.

When ye ride forth together, the earth quakes beneath your wheels. The waters flee before you, and the dry lands cry out for rain. Ye bring the storm-cloud heavy-laden with blessing; ye loose the torrents from their prison in the sky. The parched earth drinks, the pastures quicken, the herds grow fat with forage.

Ye are the givers of increase, the bringers of abundance! On ye who scatter wealth like rain upon the faithful, on ye who grant the treasure-hoard to the singer, to the man who poureth forth the soma, to the household that maketh the offering—we call!

With spears uplifted, with voices thunderous, ye march through the heavens. Your chariots' wheels sing out in victory. Ye are the wild company, the untamed ones, the storm-folk who know no master save great Rudra your sire. Come ye to our sacrifice! Drink of the soma, be strengthened, be gladdened by our praise!

Sing we the Maruts' glory, they who are wreathed in lightning, they who dwell in the upper ether, they who are seen in the tempest's eye. Fearless are ye, matchless in battle, companions of the All-Father in the age of wonders.

Ye ride forth like warriors to the battle-charge. Your chariots are bright as the morning sun. Upon your heads sit crowns of wind and fire. Your voices shake the mountains, set the heavens trembling. Yet are ye fair to look upon, O Maruts, for beauty dwelleth in strength, and majesty in terror rightly understood.

We know ye by the sound of your coming—the thunder's voice, the lightning's crack, the rushing of the rain. We know ye by your gifts—the fertile soil, the swelling grain, the cattle lowing in the pasture. Accept our offering! Drink deep of the soma! Be pleased with our song!

The warrior-band of Rudra cometh forth—how many are ye? Beyond the counting of mortal mind! A thousand, a myriad, an infinite host! Yet each is distinct and fair, each shineth with his own light. Ye are the mighty ones, the unfailing ones, the ever-youthful gods of storm.

Your ornaments are bright as burnished gold. Your weapons flash in the heavens. Your chariots roll without ceasing. And ye, O Maruts, are swift and mighty, bold and terrible. Yet ye hear the prayer of the humble, ye answer the call of those who maketh the offering.

Come unto us, O wind-riders! Come with your chariot-train! Bring ye the blessing of the rains, the wealth of herds and fields. Let the storm-clouds gather at your command; let the thunder roll at your word. Ye who are children of Rudra, ye who are kinfolk to Indra—come ye to the soma-drink!

We praise ye for your beauty. We honor ye for your strength. We thank ye for your gifts of rain and fertility, of safety and prosperity. O Maruts, ye fierce and golden ones, accept our hymn, accept our offering, accept our love and reverence!

This song we sing to the Storm-gods, the mighty Maruts, the sons of Rudra the Dread. They are warriors without equal, riders of the tempest-wind, masters of the lightning and the thunder. Beautiful are they, terrible are they, matchless in glory and in power.

When they ride forth, the mountains shake. When they shout, the heavens echo. When they shoot forth their arrows of lightning, the rain falls as from an unfailing spring. They bring life to the earth, richness to the fields, strength to the cattle, and protection to mankind.

Therefore do we sing this hymn of praise. Therefore do we offer the soma. Therefore do we call upon the Maruts with reverence and with joy, knowing that they hear us, that they answer our prayer, that they bring us blessing and abundance.