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!