O mother dear, Je­ru­sa­lem,
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.

No murky cloud o’ershadows thee,
Nor gloom, nor darksome night;
But 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.

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 gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green;
There grow such sweet and pleasant flow’rs,
As nowhere else are seen;
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 for­ev­er­more bear fruit,
And ev­er­more do spring,
There ev­er­more the angels sit,
And ev­er­more do sing.
Jerusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!