O Food That Weary Pilgrims Love

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.