The Father’s pardon from above,
O Christ, bestow; thy servants spare;
And, bending from thy throne of love,
Regard the Blessed Virgin’s prayer.
Bright Angels, happy evermore,
Who in your circles nine ascend,
As ye have guarded us before,
So may ye still our steps defend.
Ye Prophets and Apostles high,
Behold our penitential tears,
And plead for us when death is nigh,
And our all-searching Judge appears.
In purple clad, ye Martyr band,
Confessors, too, a white-robed train,
O call us to our native land,
From this our exile, back again.
Ye blessed choirs of Virgins chaste,
O may we share your seats on high,
With Hermits, who from desert waste,
Were called to mansions in the sky.
Drive from the flock, O Spirit blest,
The false and faithless race away;
That all within one fold may rest,
Secure beneath one Shepherd’s sway.
To God the Father glory be,
And to his sole-begotten Son;
All glory, Holy Spirit, to thee,
While everlasting ages run.