In the Western liturgical life as we have it in the Antiochian Archdiocese of North America today, we have precious few Sequence hymns prescribed to be sung. A Sequence hymn is a poetic chant sung after the Gradual and Alleluia/Tract. That’s why on Pentecost and throughout its Octave (excluding the following Sunday), it’s a joy to sing the Sequence “Veni, Sancte Spiritus.” This 12th or 13th century hymn was popularly dubbed the “Golden Sequence” in the late middle ages because of its “wondrous sweetness, clarity of style, pleasant brevity combined with wealth of thought (so that every line is a sentence), and finally the constructive grace and elegance displayed in the skilful and apt juxtaposition of contrasting thoughts.” I would also add to that list the memorableness of its melody.
Below is a table from Wikipedia showing the masterfully composed Latin original, along with various translations, including the poetic English rendering from Anglican priest John Mason Neale (whose translation, along with Edward Caswall’s, are the most frequently used in traditional Anglican, Roman Catholic, and, now, Western Rite Orthodox congregations). Fr. Neale’s translation set to the original plainchant melody is below that.
 | Veni Sancte Spiritus: Gregorian chant (2:37)2:38 |
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| Original Latin text[4] | Literal English translation | ICEL English translation[5] | J. M. Neale‘s translation[6] |
|---|---|---|---|
| Veni, Sancte Spiritus, et emitte caelitus lucis tuae radium. Veni, pater pauperum, veni, dator munerum, veni, lumen cordium. Consolator optime, dulcis hospes animae, dulce refrigerium. In labore requies, in aestu temperies, in fletu solatium. O lux beatissima, reple cordis intima tuorum fidelium. Sine tuo numine, nihil est in homine, nihil est innoxium. Lava quod est sordidum, riga quod est aridum, sana quod est saucium. Flecte quod est rigidum, fove quod est frigidum, rege quod est devium. Da tuis fidelibus, in te confidentibus, sacrum septenarium. Da virtutis meritum, da salutis exitum, da perenne gaudium. | Come, Holy Spirit, send forth the heavenly ray of your light. Come, father of the poor, come, giver of gifts, come, light of hearts. Greatest comforter, sweet guest of the soul, sweet consolation. In labour, rest, in heat, temperateness, in tears, solace. O most blessed light, fill the inmost heart of your faithful. Without the nod of your head, there is nothing in man, nothing that is harmless. Cleanse that which is unclean, water that which is dry, heal that which is wounded. Bend that which is inflexible, warm that which is chilled, correct that which has gone astray. Give to your faithful, those who trust in you, the sevenfold gifts. Give the reward of virtue, give a death of salvation, give joy constantly. | Holy Spirit, Lord of light, From Thy clear celestial height Thy pure beaming radiance give. Come, Thou Father of the poor, Come with treasures which endure, Come, Thou Light of all that live. Thou, of all consolers best, Thou, the soul’s delightsome Guest, Dost refreshing peace bestow. Thou in toil art comfort sweet, Pleasant coolness in the heat, Solace in the midst of woe. Light immortal, Light divine, Visit Thou these hearts of Thine, And our inmost being fill. If Thou take Thy grace away, Nothing pure in man will stay; All his good is turned to ill. Heal our wounds; our strength renew; On our dryness pour Thy dew; Wash the stains of guilt away. Bend the stubborn heart and will; Melt the frozen, warm the chill; Guide the steps that go astray. Thou, on those who evermore Thee confess and Thee adore, In Thy sevenfold gifts descend: Give them comfort when they die, Give them life with Thee on high; Give them joys that never end. | Come, Thou holy Paraclete, And from Thy celestial seat Send Thy light and brilliancy: Father of the poor, draw near; Giver of all gifts, be here; Come, the soul’s true radiancy. Come, of comforters the best, Of the soul the sweetest guest, Come in toil refreshingly: Thou in labour rest most sweet, Thou art shadow from the heat, Comfort in adversity. O Thou Light, most pure and blest, Shine within the inmost breast Of Thy faithful company. Where Thou art not, man hath nought; Every holy deed and thought Comes from Thy divinity. What is soilèd, make Thou pure; What is wounded, work its cure; What is parchèd, fructify; What is rigid, gently bend; What is frozen, warmly tend; Strengthen what goes erringly. Fill Thy faithful, who confide In Thy power to guard and guide, With Thy sevenfold mystery. Here Thy grace and virtue send: Grant salvation to the end, And in Heav’n felicity. |
