Come, Holy Spir­it, heav’n­ly Dove,
With all Thy quick’n­ing pow­ers;
Kindle a flame of sac­red love
In these cold hearts of ours.

Look how we gro­vel here be­low,
Fond of these trif­ling toys;
Our souls can nei­ther fly nor go
To reach eter­nal joys.

In vain we tune our for­mal songs,
In vain we strive to rise;
Hosannas lang­uish on our tongues,
And our de­vo­tion dies.

Dear Lord! and shall we ev­er live
At this poor dy­ing rate?
Our love so faint, so cold to Thee,
And Thine to us so great?

Come, Ho­ly Spir­it, heav’n­ly Dove,
With all Thy quick’n­ing pow­ers;
Come, shed abroad the Sav­ior’s love
And that shall kin­dle ours.