O food that wea­ry pil­grims love,
O bread of an­gel hosts above,
O man­na of the saints,
The hun­gry soul would feed on Thee;
Ne’er may the heart un­sol­aced be
Which for Thy sweet­ness faints.

O fount of love, O cleans­ing tide,
Which from the Sav­ior’s pierc­èd side
And sac­red heart dost flow,
Be ours to drink of Thy pure rill,
Which only can our spir­its fill,
And all our need be­stow.

Lord Je­su, whom, by pow­er di­vine
Now hid­den ’neath the out­ward sign,
We wor­ship and adore,
Grant, when the veil away is rolled,
With open face we may be­hold
Thyself for­ev­er­more.