Come, O Cre­at­or Spir­it blest,
And in our souls take up Thy rest;
Come, with Thy grace and hea­ven­ly aid,
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

Great Com­fort­er, to Thee we cry;
O high­est gift of God most high,
O Fount of life, O Fire of love,
And sweet an­oint­ing from above!

The sac­red se­ven­fold grace is Thine,
Dread fin­ger of the hand di­vine;
The pro­mise of the Fa­ther Thou,
Who dost the tongue with pow­er en­dow.

Kindle our sens­es from above,
And make our hearts o’er­flow with love;
With pa­tience firm, and vir­tue high,
The weak­ness of our flesh sup­ply.

Far from us drive the foe we dread,
And grant us Thy true peace in­stead;
So shall we not, with Thee for guide,
Turn from the path of life aside.

O may Thy grace on us be­stow
The Fa­ther and the Son to know,
And ev­er­more to hold con­fessed
Thyself of each the Spir­it blest.