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John Brownlie

8,8,8,8

Pentecost

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.

98

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.

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