Come, Thou ho­ly Pa­ra­clete,
And from Thy ce­les­ti­al seat
Send Thy light and bril­lian­cy:
Father of the poor, draw near;
Giver of all gifts, be here;
Come, the soul’s true ra­di­an­cy.

Come, of com­fort­ers the best,
Of the soul the sweet­est guest,
Come in toil re­fresh­ing­ly:
Thou in la­bor rest most sweet,
Thou art sha­dow from the heat,
Comfort in ad­ver­si­ty.

O Thou Light, most pure and blest,
Shine with­in the in­most breast
Of Thy faith­ful com­pa­ny.
Where Thou art not, man hath naught;
Every ho­ly deed and thought
Comes from Thy di­vi­ni­ty.

What is soil­èd, make Thou pure;
What is wound­ed, work its cure;
What is parch­èd, fruc­ti­fy;
What is ri­gid, gent­ly bend;
What is froz­en, warm­ly tend;
Strengthen what goes er­ring­ly.

Fill Thy faith­ful, who con­fide
In Thy pow­er to guard and guide,
With Thy se­ven­fold mys­te­ry.
Here Thy grace and vir­tue send:
Grant sal­va­tion to the end,
And in Heav’n fe­li­ci­ty.