John Brownlie (trans.) · 50 of 99

50: Oh, may the Spirit of all grace

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.

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.