Placare, Christe, servulis

O Christ, thy guilty people spare!

Lo, kneeling at thy gracious throne,

thy Virgin-Mother pours her prayer,

Imploring pardon for her own.

Ye angels, happy evermore!

Who in your circles nine ascend,

As ye have guarded us before,

So still from harm our steps defend.

Ye prophets and Apostles high!

Behold our penitential tears;

And plead for us when death is nigh,

our all-searching judge appears.

Ye martyrs all! a purple band,

And confessors, a white-robed train;

Oh, call us to our native land,

From this our exile, back again.

And ye, O choirs of virgins chaste!

Receive us to your seats on high;

With hermits whom the desert waste

Sent up of old into 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;

And glory, Holy Ghost, to thee,

While everlasting ages run.

Amen.