In the midst of the great assembly, the devotee’s voice rises in praise of Indra, the mighty god, calling upon his swift steeds. He is invoked with longing, that the vibrant joy of the strong may be his—joy as rich and satisfying as clarified butter poured forth by his horses. Golden in form, Indra is invited to receive the hymns, that they may enter him and bring delight. Those who sing together, their voices united, stir Indra’s horses as if in the celestial realms, filling him with vigor as cows fill a vessel with milk. All join in praising Indra, the powerful one, adorned with steeds. His thunderbolt is tawny, forged of iron, and so are his desires and arms—resplendent and fair of cheek, his wrath, too, is tawny. In Indra, all the hues of tawny are perfectly measured, shining forth. His tawny thunderbolt, a beacon in the sky, is set aloft and ever-victorious. With it, Indra struck down the serpent; the fair-cheeked, iron-wielding god became radiant, his thunderbolt blazing with a thousand flames. The ancient sacrificers have long praised Indra as the tawny-haired one, for all his deeds are worthy of acclaim, and his bounty, born of that tawny splendor, is most abundant. To Indra, the joyous, the praised, the exhilarated, the tawny steeds draw his chariot. For him, many libations of Soma are prepared; the tawny ones themselves place the Soma for Indra’s delight. They offer it for desire and steadfastness, urging the tawny horses swiftly onward. Indra, delighting in his tawny steeds, fulfills his desires in tawny joy. With a tawny beard and hair, his body of iron, swift and strong, Indra grows in might as he drinks with the tawny ones. Rich in steeds, he drives away all misfortune with the power of his horses. His tawny mares scatter as if to heed a call, rushing forth for victory; for the sake of the cup, they cleanse it, and Indra drinks the exhilarating tawny Soma. Across heaven and earth, Indra’s greatness is praised again and again, and he delights in these dear hymns. The devotee entreats him: reveal the dwelling, O lord, for the tawny one, for the cow, for the sun. Let your tawny-cheeked horses draw you among the people, Indra—drink the sweet beverage as you desire, delighting in the sacrifice and the assembly. Of all the Somas pressed in earlier times and this one now, the exclusive libation is for you, O tawny one. Drink the honeyed Soma, Indra, and fill yourself with the mighty strength of the bull. Drink here the pressed Soma, purified in the waters, together with men; fill your belly with the libation. The Soma-juices, desiring to intoxicate, are readied for you—grow strong with them, O bringer of exhilaration and hymns. To you, Indra of the bay steeds, is offered the true and potent drink of pressed Soma. Rejoice here, Indra, with nourishing streams, delighting in all hymns, your might praised in our songs. With your protection and strength, the wise and truthful singers, full of vigor, take their place in the home, praising you and longing to share in your feast. Indra is he who, at birth, was first and most powerful, surpassing all other gods by his will. By his might, heaven and earth are held apart. He made firm the trembling earth, calmed the angry mountains, measured out the vast midspace, and propped up the sky—such is Indra among men. He who slew the serpent and released the seven rivers, who freed the cows confined by Vala, who generated fire between stones in contests—he is Indra. He set all moving things in motion, hid the Dasa race in secret, and, like a hunter, seized wealth—he is Indra. People ask in fear, “Where is he?” or doubt his existence, but he, the noble one, diminishes the wealth of the prosperous as if splitting it; faith is placed in him. He is the helper of the weak, the poor, the unsupported singer, the protector of the one who presses Soma—he is Indra. His horses, cows, villages, and chariots are everywhere; he created the sun and the dawn and leads the waters—he is Indra. All enemies, near and far, call upon him, even those standing on the same chariot cry out to him with different voices—he is Indra. Without him, people do not win; those in battle call for his help. He is the measure of all things, shaking even the unshakable. He struck down the proud who thought themselves invincible; he does not let the hostile escape and is the slayer of the Dasyu—he is Indra. He found Sambara dwelling in the mountains for forty years, struck down the swelling serpent, and slew the sleeping Danu. He overcame Sambara with the Kasis, drank the Soma of the Asnās, and overwhelmed the sacrificing people within the mountain—he is Indra. He is the bull of seven rays, mighty, who let the seven rivers flow, and with his thunderbolt struck down Rauhina as he rose to the sky. Even heaven and earth are subject to him; the mountains fear his might. He drinks Soma, his arms thunderous, ever holding the thunderbolt—he is Indra. He protects the one who presses, cooks, praises, and seeks help; for him, the hymn and Soma are strength, and all wealth belongs to him. Born in the lap of his parents, he knows no other origin; he is to be praised by us, following our vows—among the gods, he is Indra. He desires Soma, the swift-bayed, the wise one, from whom all beings tremble; he slew Shambara and Shushna, the sole hero—he is Indra. He grants the prize to those who press and cook; indeed, he is true. May we, always dear to him, strong among men, speak forth at the assembly. To him, then, are these praises directed as offerings for his strength and greatness; with verses, like eager horses, hymns are driven forth for Indra, most generous with prayers. Songs are offered as offerings, voices raised in well-praised hymns, hearts and minds adorned for the ancient lord. The supreme, radiant song is brought forth, the greatest words of praise among thoughts, well-formed hymns to magnify the generous one. The hymn is joined to him as a craftsman fits a chariot for strength—songs and praises for Indra, the wise, all-encompassing, lover of singers. The hymn is yoked like a charioteer for fame, the tongue honoring the heroic, bountiful, ancient, renowned, law-abiding lord of many cities. For him, Tvashtar fashioned the thunderbolt, most skillful and worthy of heaven, for battle; with it, Indra struck even the vital spot of Vritra, scattering the hosts. At his mother’s pressings, he drank the great draught, and his father’s nourishing food; Vishnu aided, the stronger, in the cooking. Indra struck the boar and cast the mountain aside. Thus, the hymns and stories of Indra’s greatness, might, and generosity flow, ever remembered and ever praised.