In the hour of my dis­tress,
When temp­ta­tions me op­press,
And when I my sins con­fess,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When I lie with­in my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts dis­com­fort­ed,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the art­less doc­tor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When his po­tion and his pill
Is of none or lit­tle skill,
Meet for no­thing but to kill,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the pass­ing-bell doth toll,
And the fur­ies, in a shoal,
Come to fright my part­ing soul,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the ta­pers now burn blue,
And the com­fort­ers are few,
And that num­ber more than true,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said,
’Cause my speech is now de­cayed,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When, God knows, I’m tossed about,
Either with des­pair or doubt,
Yet, be­fore the glass be out,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the tempt­er me pur­su­eth
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with un­truth,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the flames and hell­ish cries
Fright my ears and fright my eyes,
And all ter­rors me sur­prise,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.

When the judg­ment is re­vealed,
And that op­ened which was sealed,
When to Thee I have ap­pealed,
Sweet Spir­it, com­fort me.