Uxbridge. L. M.
1. Come, sacred Spirit, from above,
And fill the coldest heart with love:
Oh, turn to flesh the flinty stone,
And let thy sovereign power be known.
2. Speak thou — and from the haughtiest eyes
Shall floods of contrite sorrow rise;
While all their glowing souls are borne
To seek that grace which now they scorn.
3. Oh, let a holy flock await,
In crowds around thy temple gate!
Each pressing on with zeal to be
A living sacrifice to thee.