As the dawn broke over the ancient world, the frog, long dormant, awakened to life. It began to eat, curiously facing backward, and with its head, it seemed to place a shield before itself. Sitting upright, the frog dried its moist body in the morning sun, and when it lay flat, it pressed close to the earth, following its contours. Nearby stood a vast, broad-shaded tree, remarkable in that it bore no leaves. Beneath its shelter, a mother, pierced in her heart, consumed her own embryo. Elsewhere, a cow measured her young calf, pondering by what mysterious means she, heavy with life, had placed the calf within herself. From below, seven heroes arose, lost from the north but gathering together at the journey’s end. From the west, nine more arrived, standing firm, and ten from the east traversed the ridges, eating as they went. Among the ten, one was tawny and common, urged forward for ritual and for crossing. The mother, joyful and content, carried her well-nourished child at her breast, delighting in him. The heroes then cooked a fat ram, and as the meal was prepared, the dice were cast and they sat to play. Two great bows, purified, moved among them, cleansing as they went. Shouters spread out in all directions, but the cook was absent, and half the wing was missing. Then the god Savitar declared, “Let the swift one, the butter-eater, go forth.” From afar, a village was seen, rolling away on wheels, moving according to its own law. The Arya sharpened the yoke for his people, and in a sudden renewal, the young measured themselves, full of vigor. Two cows were yoked for delight, and the plea arose: let them not be hindered, but let them refresh again and again. Even the waters of one were lost for a purpose, and the sun and the monkey rose to supremacy. A thunderbolt, vast and far-reaching, descended from the great dung of the sun, bringing fame, yet hinting at something greater beyond. By this power, even the aged crossed over without fear. From tree to tree, the cow moved, measuring the distance, and then the young burst forth, consuming men. Thus, the world was filled with awe, and offerings were made to Indra, learning from the wisdom of the seer. In the measure of the gods, the first ones stood, while the cutters rose above them. Three heated the earth and marshes, and two carried dung in their mouths. Among all this, one was the giver of life—know him as such, and do not hide in battle from one like him. He reveals the sun and conceals darkness, and though revealed, he is not released from the bonds of the unliberated. All other enemies had departed, but the father-in-law remained. Let him eat and drink soma, and, sated, return to his home. The roaring bull with sharp horns stood in the rain, marking the earth’s path. Among all gatherings, may the one who fills with soma be protected. With stones, the exhilarating soma was pressed for Indra, who drank deeply. The bulls cooked for him, and he ate their offering when invoked with the ladle. May the singer know well that the rivers carry away curses that run against the current. Wolves turn from the lion, fish from the crocodile, jackals from the boar, all scorched from their hollows. How, indeed, did the inspired Gritsa come to this wisdom? The knowing one speaks in due season, revealing what share should be kept for Indra. Thus, strength increases, even from those high in the vast sky. Thousands are laid down together, for the begetter has begotten the unconquered. So the gods made the mighty one strong, granting power and manliness. Indra, with delight, slew Vritra with the thunderbolt, opening the pen for the worshipper. The gods, bearing axes, cut the forest, approaching with weapons, and placed the well-fixed one in their breasts, burning it with the wedge. The hare sharpened the razor, turning it back, and split the stone from afar with its paw. Even the great one, wounded, was pierced with holes, like a calf licking a bull. The eagle sharpened its claw, restrained like a lion at the track, and the buffalo, though held, longed to run, while the iguana dragged away the prize. The iguana took away from those who, opposing the sacred word, fed on food. Even calves, released from the ox, bit and grew strong on their own. Some, shaded by the branches of the shami tree, found shelter, while others adorned themselves with soma hymns. Speaking with human voices, they came with strength, and in heaven, the hero’s fame and name were established. Like a tree in the forest, one set down grew in praise, bright and eager. For whom Indra is priest among men, the noble and most manly, lord of the night, may we reach the farthest dawn. Let us join the dance of the most manly, following Trishoka and Kutsa, victorious with a hundred men. What exhilaration of Indra is most delightful? Let the fierce one run to our songs from afar. Which helper may come near, that highest favor may be attained with food? What glory does Indra bestow upon men, by what wisdom does he act, and who comes to him? Like Mitra, true in service, he is widely praised when thoughts are united in food. Let the sun be sent forth, seeking the farthest goal, for those who pursue his desire like offspring. Many songs rise for Indra, answered by men born of his strength with food. For Indra, for his mother, for Sumitra, may ancient heaven and wise earth be present. For his delight, let clarified offerings and sweet draughts await him. To Indra, the full measure of the sweet drink has been poured, for he is truly bounteous. He has grown in greatness, filling the wide earth with noble deeds and heroic powers. Indra scatters the hosts of battle with his strength, and many strive for his friendship. In battle, stand firm like a chariot, driven forward by his gracious favor. Let the hymn go forth to the gods, swift as the mind’s prompting, an offering to the divine. May those who possess the great law of Mitra and Varuna grant wide and splendid praise. O priests, be ready with offerings, approach with reverence and eager hearts. The tawny, beautiful-winged one watches over you—let strong hands pour out the wave of drink. Priests, go to the waters, to the ocean, and worship the Son of the Waters with offerings. He will give a pure, foaming wave; for him, press the sweet soma rich in honey. He who, without fuel, shines among the waters, is invoked by the inspired at sacrifice. O Son of the Waters, grant honeyed streams by which Indra grew strong. By these streams, Soma rejoices and exults like a youth with maidens. Priests, go to the waters that they may purify the soma poured with herbs. The young maidens bow down eagerly when summoned, uniting in mind and purpose—O priests and goddesses of wisdom and waters. He who made a path for you from closed places, who released you from the great curse—offer to that Indra the honeyed wave, the divine exhilarating drink, O waters. Pour for him the honeyed wave, the embryo of rivers, the fountain of honey. Waters, rich in ghee and worthy of praise at sacrifice, listen to my call.