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1 Come, thou holy Paraclete,
And from thy celestial seat
Shed thy light and brilliancy.
Father of the poor, draw near,
Giver of all gifts, be here;
Come, the soul's true radiancy.
2 Come, of comforters the best,
Of the soul the sweetest guest,
Come in toil refreshingly.
Thou in labour, rest most sweet,
Thou art shadow from the heat,
Comfort in adversity.
3 O thou Light, most pure and blest,
Shine within the inmost breast
Of thy faithful company.
Where thou art not, man hath nought;
Every holy deed and thought
Comes from thy divinity.
4 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;
Straighten what goes erringly.
5 Fill thy faithful, who confide
In thy power to guard and guide,
With thy sevenfold mystery.
Here, thy grace and virtue send;
Grant salvation in the end,
And in heaven, felicity.
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