Jerusalem, my hap­py home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sor­rows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?

O hap­py har­bor of the saints!
O sweet and plea­sant soil!
In thee no sor­row may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sick­ness may be seen,
No hurt, no ache, no sore;
There is no death nor ug­ly dev­il,
There is life for ev­er­more.

No damp­ish mist is seen in thee,
No cold nor dark­some night;
There ev­ery soul shines as the sun;
For God Him­self gives light.

There lust and lucre can­not dwell;
There en­vy bears no sway;
There is no hun­ger, heat, nor cold,
But plea­sure ev­ery way.

Jerusalem, Je­ru­sa­lem,
God grant that I may see
Thine end­less joy, and of the same
Partaker ay may be!

Thy walls are made of pre­cious stones,
Thy bul­warks dia­monds square;
Thy gates are of right or­ient pearl;
Exceeding rich and rare;

Thy tur­rets and thy pin­na­cles
With car­bun­cles do shine;
Thy ve­ry streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine;

Thy hous­es are of iv­ory,
Thy win­dows crys­tal clear;
Thy tiles are made of beat­en gold—
O God that I were there!

Within thy gates no­thing doth come
That is not pass­ing clean,
No spi­der’s web, no dirt, no dust,
No filth may there be seen.

Aye, my sweet home, Je­ru­sa­lem,
Would God I were in thee:
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see.

Thy saints are crowned with glo­ry great;
They see God face to face;
They tri­umph still, they still re­joice
Most hap­py is their case.

We that are here in ban­ish­ment
Continually do mourn:
We sigh and sob, we weep and wail,
Perpetually we groan.

Our sweet is mixed with bit­ter gall,
Our plea­sure is but pain:
Our joys scarce last the look­ing on,
Our sor­rows still re­main.

But there they live in such de­light,
Such plea­sure and such play,
As that to them a thou­sand years
Doth seem as yes­ter­day.

Thy vine­yards and thy or­chards are
Most beau­ti­ful and fair,
Full fur­nished with trees and fruits,
Most won­der­ful and rare.

Thy gar­dens and thy gal­lant walks
Continually are green:
There grow such sweet and plea­sant flow­ers
As no­where else are seen.

There is nec­tar and am­bro­sia made,
There is musk and ci­vet sweet;
There many a fair and dain­ty drug
Is trod­den un­der feet.

There cin­na­mon, there su­gar grows,
Here nard and balm abound.
What tongue can tell or heart con­ceive
The joys that there are found?

Quite through the streets with sil­ver sound
The flood of life doth flow,
Upon whose banks on ev­ery side
The wood of life doth grow.

There trees for ev­er­more bear fruit,
And ev­er­more do spring;
There ev­er­more the an­gels be,
And ev­er­more do sing.

There Da­vid stands with harp in hand
As mas­ter of the choir:
Ten thou­sand times that man were blessed
That might this mu­sic hear.

Our La­dy sings Mag­ni­ficat
With tune sur­pass­ing sweet,
And all the vir­gins bear their part,
Sitting at her feet.

There Mag­da­len hath left her moan,
And cheer­fu­lly doth sing
With bless­èd saints, whose har­mo­ny
In ev­ery street doth ring.

Jerusalem, my hap­py home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end
Thy joys that I might see!