Holy Spir­it, Lord of light,
From Thy clear ce­les­ti­al height
Thy pure beam­ing ra­di­ance give.

Come, Thou Fa­ther of the poor,
Come with trea­sures which en­dure,
Come, Thou Light of all that live.

Thou, of all con­sol­ers best,
Thou, the soul’s de­light­some guest,
Dost re­fresh­ing peace be­stow.

Thou in toil art com­fort sweet,
Pleasant cool­ness in the heat,
Solace in the midst of woe.

Light im­mor­tal, Light di­vine,
Visit Thou these hearts of Thine,
And our in­most be­ing fill.

If Thou take Thy grace away,
Nothing pure in man will stay;
All his good is turned to ill.

Heal our wounds; our strength re­new;
On our dry­ness pour Thy dew;
Wash the stains of guilt away.

Bend the stub­born heart and will;
Melt the froz­en, warm the chill;
Guide the steps that go as­tray.

Thou, on those who ev­er­more
Thee con­fess and Thee adore,
In Thy se­ven­fold gifts des­cend:

Give them com­fort when they die,
Give them life with Thee on high;
Give them joys that ne­ver end.