Round roll the weeks our hearts to greet, With blissful joy returning; For lo! the Holy Paraclete On twelve bright brows sits burning: With quivering flame He lights on each, In fashion like a tongue, to teach That eloquent they are of speech, Their hearts with true love yearning. While with all tongues they speak to all, The nations deem them maddened, And drunk with wine the Prophets call, Whom God's good Spirit gladdened; A marvel this—in mystery done— The holy Paschaltide outrun, By numbers told, whose reckoning won Remission for the saddened. O God most Holy, Thee we pray, With reverent brow low bending, Grant us the Spirit's gifts to-day— The gifts from heaven descending; And, since, Thy grace hath deigned to bide Within our breasts once sanctified, Deign, Lord, to cast our sins aside, Henceforth calm seasons sending. To God the Father, laud and praise, Praise to the Son be given; Praise to the Spirit of all grace, The fount of graces seven— As was of old, all worlds before, Is now and shall be evermore, When time and change are spent and o'er— All praise in earth and heaven.