Come down, O love di­vine,
Seek Thou this soul of mine,
And vi­sit it with Thine
Own ar­dor glow­ing.
O Com­fort­er, draw near,
Within my heart ap­pear,
And kin­dle it,
Thy ho­ly flame be­stow­ing.

O let it free­ly burn,
Til earth­ly pass­ions turn
To dust and ash­es
In its heat con­sum­ing;
And let Thy glo­ri­ous light
Shine ev­er on my sight,
And clothe me round,
The while my path il­lum­ing.

Let ho­ly cha­ri­ty mine
Outward ves­ture be,
And low­li­ness be­come
Mine in­ner clo­thing;
True low­li­ness of heart,
Which takes the hum­bler part,
And o’er its own short­com­ings
Weeps with loath­ing.

And so the yearn­ing strong,
With which the soul will long,
Shall far out­pass the pow­er
Of hu­man tell­ing;
For none can guess its grace,
Till he be­come the place
Wherein the Ho­ly Spir­it
Makes His dwell­ing.