Rising with majestic strength, Indra, you shook your two mighty jaws and drank the pressed Soma, invigorating yourself for the deeds ahead. To you, we pray: break apart all hatreds, drive away and destroy our enemies, and bring us that most desirable wealth. Whatever is loose or firm, whatever is hidden deep within the stone—O Indra, bring us that coveted wealth. All humanity knows of the gifts you have bestowed, O generous one; again, bring us that desirable abundance. Let the singer lift up fresh songs in praise of Indra, king of peoples, the slayer of foes, the mightiest among men. In you, the hymns resound, and all fame gathers, as waters pour into the ocean. With excellent praise, I summon you, eldest king, all-accomplishing one, great giver of prizes to your companions. This speech, O Indra, is hidden, like a pigeon within the womb, yet you do not disregard it. O lord of gifts, bearer of songs, heroic one—may your glory be abundant, may truthfulness be ever yours. Stand upright for our aid, O hundred-powered one, in this contest; grant us the strength to speak among the assemblies. Guide us to wealth and to light in the battles; lead us to victory over our foes. Indra, much-invoked and ever-supporting, carry us safely beyond all hatreds. Gladden us with your strength and your guiding path, and lead us ever to your good favor. With strength, we urge on Indra to strike down the great foe; may he be the mighty bull. Indra, made for conquering, most powerful, filled with exhilaration, glorious, renowned, and ever-loving the Soma. His speech is a gathered thunderbolt—strong, unfailing, exalted, unshaken, and towering. The singers chant to great Indra; the praisers praise him with hymns; voices call upon Indra. With his two bay steeds, yoked with speech, Indra wields the golden thunderbolt. For far-seeing vision, Indra made the sun rise in the sky; with his rays, he split the mountain. Come, Indra, for you are eager; drink this Soma—this is my seat of offering. Let your two tawny steeds, yoked by our prayers, bring you here; listen to our supplications. With prayer, we, the Soma-offerers, call you, Indra, drinker of Soma, when the Soma is pressed. They yoke the spotted, ruddy one, moving among those who stand still; the lights shine in the sky. They yoke your beloved two bay steeds, with beautiful wings, to the chariot—red, bold, and bringing men. You make a sign for the signless, a form for the formless; you were born together with the dawns. Upward, the rays bear Jātavedas, the god, for all to see—the sun. As thieves depart, so the rays withdraw with the nights, making way for the all-seeing sun. His rays are seen, his beams shine among the people, brilliant as fires. Swift and all-seeing, maker of light, O Sun, you shine upon all the regions. You turn back the hosts of gods, you turn back the hosts of men, you turn back all the shining world for the seer. With your radiant eye, O Varuṇa, by which you see all moving people, you watch over us. You, O Sun, travel across the broad expanse of sky with your rays, beholding the births of men. Seven bay steeds draw you, O divine Sun, on your chariot—brilliant-haired and all-seeing. The Sun, offspring of the chariot, has yoked seven swift mares; with these self-yoked steeds, he journeys. To you, radiant one, the hymns pour forth, swift as horses—like cows hastening to their calf. They flow forth, shining, abundant with radiance and milk, as the mother brings forth her newborn from her heart. With the strength of the thunderbolt, fame has brought the dying man life, clarified butter, and milk. This spotted cow has stepped forth, advancing to her mother and seeking her father. He moves within the shining realms, from his breath and out-breath; the great buffalo has declared the light. With thirty abodes he shines forth; the bird of speech soars, responding to the call of the radiant dawns.