WHITSUNTIDE
Veni, sancte Spiritus.
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
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 adversitiy.
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 soiled, make thou pure;
What is wounded, work its cure
What is parched, fructify;
What is rigid, gently bend;
What is frozen, warmly tend;
Strengthen 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 to the end,
And in heaven felicity.
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