INDRA, whose right hand wields the lightning bolt, we worship, driver of the swift horses seeking separate paths. Shaking his beard with might, he has risen, casting his weapons and distributing blessings.
The treasure his swift horses found at sacrifice—this wealth made opulent Indra slayer of enemies. Ṛbhu, Ṛbhukṣan, Vāja—he is Lord of Might. The Dāsa’s very name I utterly destroy.
With the Princes, Maghavari, famed of old, comes near the golden thunderbolt, and the Controller’s chariot Which his two tawny horses pull, then Indra is the supreme lord of power whose glory spreads far and wide.
With him too is this rain of his that comes like herds: Indra throws drops of moisture on his yellow beard. When the sweet juice is shed, he seeks the pleasant place, and stirs the worshipper as wind disturbs the forest.
We praise and laud his various acts of valor, who, father-like, with power has made us stronger; Who with his voice slew many thousands of wicked ones who spoke in varied ways with contemptuous cries.
Indra, the Vimadas have formed for you a praise, copious, unparalleled, for you Most Generous. We know the good we gain from you the Mighty One when we attract you as a herdsman calls the cattle.
May this bond of friendship never be severed, the Vimada’s and yours, O Indra. We know you care for us as a brother with us, O God, may your auspicious friendship be blessed.