Sing a song, to make him glad, to Indra, Lord of Tawny Steeds, The Soma drinker, O my friends.
To him the Bounteous say the praise, and let us glorify, as men May do, the Giver of true gifts.
O Indra, Lord of boundless might, for us you win strength and cattle, You win gold for us, Good Lord.
Faithfully to you we sing loudly, heroic Indra, songs to you: Look, O Good Lord, at this deed.
Don't give us up to man's reproach, to foeman's hateful slander: In you alone is all my strength.
You are my broad breastplate, my Champion, Vṛtra-slayer, you: With you as friend I face the foe.
Yes, great are you whose conquering might two independent Powers confess. Heaven, O India, and Earth.
Let the voice surround you, which attends the Maruts on their way, Reaching you with the rays of light.
Let the ascending drops reach you, the Wondrous God, in heaven: Let all the folk bow down to you.
Bring to the Wise, the Great, who grows mighty, your offerings, and prepare your devotion; To many clans he goes, man's controller.
For Indra, the sublime, the far-reaching, have singers generated prayer and praises: The sages never violate his statutes.
The choirs have established Indra King forever, for victory, him whose anger cannot be resisted: And, for the Lord of the Bays, he strengthens those he loves.