The Rig Veda/Mandala 1/Hymn 7

1 INDRA the singers with high praise, Indra reciters with their lauds, Indra the choirs have glorified. 2 Indra hath ever close to him his two bay steeds and word-yoked car, Indra the golden, thunder-armed. 3 Indra hath raised the Sun on high in heaven, that he may see afar: He burst the mountain for the kine. 4 Help us, O Indra, in the frays, yea, frays, where thousand spoils are gained, With awful aids, O awful One. 5 In mighty battle we invoke Indra, Indra in lesser fight, The Friend who bends his bolt at fiends. 6 Unclose, our manly Hero, thou for ever bounteous, yonder cloud, For us, thou irresistible. 7 Still higher, at each strain of mine, thunder-armed Indra's praises rise: I find no laud worthy of him. 8 Even as the bull drives on the herds, he drives the people with his might, The Ruler irresistible: 9 Indra who rules with single sway men, riches, and the fivefold race Of those who dwell upon the earth. 10 For your sake from each side we call Indra away from other men: Ours, and none others', may he be.