With hearts full of devotion, the sages invoked mighty Indra, calling to him through prayer. They entreated his presence, asking that his two tawny steeds, yoked by the power of their hymns, carry him swiftly to their sacrificial ground. As the Soma was pressed and its sacred juice offered, they invited Indra—the drinker of Soma—to partake, their prayers rising with the fragrant vapors. The ritual unfolded: the priests yoked the spotted, ruddy-hued horse, whose movement circled those who stood in reverence, while the lights of dawn shimmered in the sky above. Indra’s beloved pair of bay steeds, adorned with beautiful wings, were harnessed to his chariot—fiery, bold, and bearing men onward. In this sacred moment, Indra, the one who gives form to the formless and sign to the signless, revealed himself, born together with the dawns. Upward, the rays of light bore Jātavedas—the god Agni, manifest as the sun—for all to witness. As night receded, the rays of the sun departed like thieves, giving way to the all-seeing orb that watches over all. His beams were seen among the people, shining brightly, kindling fires of life and energy wherever they touched. O swift and all-seeing Sun, maker of light, you illuminate every region, shining upon the world. With your radiant gaze, you turn back the hosts of gods and men alike, drawing all the shining worlds into the vision of the seer. Varuṇa, with your brilliant eye, you see all that moves, observing the deeds of mortals across the earth. The Sun, with his rays, traverses the vast sky, witnessing the births and lives of men. Seven bay steeds draw the divine Sun’s chariot—brilliant-maned and ever watchful. The Sun, offspring of the chariot, has yoked seven swift mares, self-harnessed, with whom he journeys across the heavens. To this radiant one, hymns pour forth, swift as horses, rushing to him as cows run to their calf. These prayers flow in abundance, shining and rich with radiance, as a mother brings forth her newborn from the depths of her heart. With the strength of the thunderbolt, fame has brought life, clarified butter, and milk even to the dying man. The spotted cow, symbol of the dawn, steps forth, seeking her mother and father, advancing into the light. The great buffalo—Agni—moves within the shining realms, breathing forth, declaring the light to the world. With thirty abodes, he shines, and the bird of speech soars aloft, answering the call of the radiant dawns. When the mighty one ascended into speech and sought mastery over the midspace, the gods rejoiced together, exulting in his strength. O mighty one, empower our speech with boldness; make our voice wide and unassailable, and be most exalted in your heavenly joy. Let our hymns be strong and fearless, shining forth from the abode of law, as the sacred grass is prepared for the gods. Thus, we praise wondrous, death-conquering Indra with our hymns, just as cows in their stalls praise a beloved calf. We seek the shining, generous, and powerful one, surrounded by strength—like a mountain rich in treasures, abundant in food, wealth, and cattle. We approach your heroic power, Indra, remembering the ancient knowledge by which you aided the striving Bhrigus and protected Praskanva. By your might, O Indra, you set the great rivers in motion and made the ocean flow. Your greatness is undiminished, unconquered by the earth itself. Who among mortals is worthy to praise the swift Atasīna horses? None have fully captured his greatness, though many have sung his praises. When do the singers, the righteous and inspired, call upon the god? Which sage invokes him? When, O generous Indra, will you come to the pressed Soma and the song of praise? Now, let us praise Indra, bestower of riches, as is fitting. He, the generous one, grants abundant wealth to the singers, as if by the thousands. Like one with a hundred armies, he advances with might, striking down foes for the worshipper. His gifts, rich in enjoyment, flow like rivers from a mountain. Let us sing to famed, wealth-giving Indra, for he grants desirable treasures to the one who presses Soma and sings his praise. His countless weapons, vast and hard to overcome, are ever with him. Like a mountain, abundance flows among the generous when Soma is plentiful. Having pressed the Soma, we gather around you, O slayer of Vṛtra, as waters surround the sacrificial grass. At the outpourings of the purifier, the singers assemble. Men call to you at the pressing, O giver of wealth, with hymns. When will you come home, O Indra, longing for the pressed Soma, like a bull roaring for its herd? With the Kanvas, we seek you, mighty one of firm banner, of a thousand gifts, generous and variegated among men. Swiftly may we obtain cattle and prosperity. Who knows Indra at the pressing, who is accompanied and focused in mind? He who shatters forts with his power, delighting in the strong Soma, sets his course like a wild beast—an elephant—moving in many places. None can restrain you at the pressing, O mighty one; your coming cannot be checked. Fierce, unopposed, steadfast, and ready for battle, if you hear the singer’s call, O generous one, do not turn away from us. All the hosts and their allies have fashioned Indra for kingship, exalting him by wisdom, the best of gifts—mighty, powerful, strong, and energetic—for the good of all.