Above the star­ry spheres,
To where He was be­fore,
Christ had gone up, the Fa­ther’s gift
Upon the Church to pour.

At length had ful­ly come,
On mys­tic cir­cle borne
Of se­ven times se­ven re­volv­ing days,
The Pen­te­cos­tal morn.

When, as the Apos­tles knelt
At the third hour in pray­er,
A sud­den rush­ing sound pro­claimed
That God Him­self was there.

Forthwith a tongue of fire
Is seen on ev­ery brow,
Each heart re­ceives the Fa­ther’s light,
The Word’s en­kind­ling glow.

The Ho­ly Ghost on all
Is migh­ti­ly out­poured,
Who straight in di­vers tongues de­clare
The won­ders of the Lord.

While stran­gers of all climes
Flock round from far and near,
And their own tongue, wher­ev­er born,
All with amaze­ment hear.

But Judah, faith­less still,
Denies the hand di­vine;
And, mock­ing, jeers the saints of Christ
As full of new made wine.

Till Pe­ter, in the midst,
By Jo­el’s an­cient word,
Rebukes their un­belief, and wins
Three thou­sand to the Lord.

The Fa­ther and the Son
And Spi­rit we adore,
O may the Spi­rit’s gifts be poured
On us for­ev­er­more.