Come, Thou Holy Paraclete

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.