O thou not made with hands,
Not throned above the skies,
Nor walled with shin­ing walls,
Nor framed with stones of price,
More bright than gold or gem,
God’s own Je­ru­sa­lem.

Where’er the gen­tle heart
Finds cour­age from above;
Where’er the heart for­sook
Warms with the breath of love;
Where faith bids fear de­part,
City of God, thou art.

Thou art where’er the proud
In hum­ble­ness melts down;
Where self it­self yields up;
Where mar­tyrs win their crown;
Where faith­ful souls pos­sess
Themselves in per­fect peace.

Where in life’s com­mon ways
With cheer­ful feet we go;
Where in His steps we tread,
Who trod the way of woe;
Where He is in the heart,
City of God, thou art.

Not throned above the skies,
Nor gold­en-walled afar,
But where Christ’s two or three
In His name ga­thered are,
Be in the midst of them,
God’s own Je­ru­sa­lem.