Oh, may the Spirit of all grace
Descend and in our hearts abide,
And what of good or ill betide,
Find in them aye a resting-place.

There is no peace to mortals given,
Save when the Spirit finds His rest
Within the secret of our breast,
And there inspires the calm of heaven.

Our earthly calms a storm presage;
They whisper peace, and tempests rise;
And clouds obscure the brightest skies,
And winds and waves in tumult rage.

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No storm disturbs the heavenly peace;
No whispering fills the soul with fears
As when the brooding tempest nears,
And clouds around our path increase.

'Tis lasting calm, 'tis heavenly rest:
Come, Spirit of the Living God,
And in our spirits shed abroad
The peace that makes the troubled blest.