tr., John Brownlie
O 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.