1 Sing to the troop that pours down rain in common, the mighty company of celestial nature.

They make the world-halves tremble with their greatness: from depths of earth and sky they reach to heaven.

2 Yea, your birth, angels, was with wild commotion, ye who move swiftly, fierce in wrath, terrific.

Ye all-surpassing in your might and vigour, each looker on the light fears at your coming.

3 Give ample vital power unto our princes; let our fair praises gratify the angels.

As the way travelled helpeth people onward, so further us with your delightful succours.

4 Your favoured singer counts his wealth by hundreds: the strong steed whom ye favour wins a thousand.

The sovereign whom ye aid destroys the foeman. May this your gift, ye shakers, be distinguished.

5 I call, as such, the servants of the Bounteous: will not the angels turn again to us-ward?

What secret sin or open stirs their anger, that we implore the swift ones to forgive us.

6 This eulogy of the Bounteous hath been spoken: accept, ye angels, this our hymn of praises.

Ye Bulls, keep those who hate us at a distance. Preserve us evermore with blessings.