O what their joy and their glo­ry must be,
Those end­less Sab­baths the bless­èd ones see;
Crown for the val­iant, to wea­ry ones, rest;
God shall be all, and in all ev­er blessed.

What are the Mon­arch, His court, and His throne?
What are the peace and the joy that they own?
Tell us, ye blest ones, that in it have share,
If what ye feel ye can ful­ly de­clare!

Truly, Je­ru­sa­lem name we that shore,
Vision of Peace that brings joy ev­er­more;
Wish and ful­fill­ment can se­vered be ne’er;
Nor do things prayed for come short of the pray­er.

We, where no trou­bles dis­tract­ion can bring,
We the sweet an­thems of Si­on shall sing:
While for Thy grace, Lord, their voic­es of praise
Thy bless­èd people ev­er­more raise.

There dawns no Sab­bath, no Sab­bath is o’er,
Those Sab­bath keep­ers have one, and no more;
One and un­end­ing is that tri­umph song
Which to the an­gels and us shall be­long.

Now in the mean­while, with hearts raised on high,
We for that coun­try must yearn and must sigh;
Seeking Je­ru­sa­lem, dear na­tive land,
Through our long ex­ile on Ba­by­lon’s strand.

Low be­fore Him with our prais­es we fall,
Of whom, and in whom, and through whom are all;
Of whom, the Fa­ther; and in whom, the Son,
Through whom, the Spir­it, with These ev­er One.