Come, holy Spirit, pentecostal flame.
Out of the deep we cry to thee. The shame
Of feeble virtues, mild complacencies
Consumes our bodies like a foul disease.
Eat us as acid eats, burn us with fire,
Till every timid hope and pale desire,
All fond ideals, misty hopes that fly
Beyond the frontiers of reality,
Crumble to ash and leave us clean as light,
Essential strength, pure shapes of granite bright
Set up for no man’s worship, no man’s pleasure,
But fashioned by the slow, aeonian leisure
Of storms and blowing sands. Of thee is born
All power, all bravery, and the sharp-eyed scorn
That sees beneath bright gawds to the bare bone
Of naked Truth’s relentless skeleton.
Save, lest we perish unrepentent, sped
To our last count without thy lance and shield,
Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled,
With all our small perfections on our head.