You are the Wealth Lord, O Rich Lord, in your hands the people stand, Indra! Men invoke you with clamoring voices for seeds and waters, offspring and sunlight.
Through your fear, O Indra, all the earth’s regions tremble, none can move, shake, or tremble. All that stands firm is terrified by your approach—earth, sky, mountains, and forests.
With Kutsa, Indra! You overcame Śuṣṇa, voracious, crop-bane, in the fight for cattle. In fierce combat, you tore him apart; you took the Sun’s wheel and drove away misfortune.
You brought down the hundred castles, impenetrable, of Śambara the Dasyu, When, strong, with might you helped Divodāsa, who poured libations, O Soma-buyer, and made Bharadvāja rich, who praised you.
Thus, true Hero, for great joy of battle, mount your fearsome chariot, O Brave and Manly. Come with your aid to me, distant Wanderer, and, glorious God, spread my glory among men.