With glad­some feet we press to Si­on’s ho­ly mount,
Where gush­es from its deep re­cess the cool­ing fount;
Oh! hap­py, hap­py hill, the joy of ev­ery saint!
With sweet Si­lo­am’s crys­tal rill, that cheers the faint.

Great ci­ty, blest of God! Je­ru­sa­lem the free!
With cease­less step the path be trod that leads to thee!
The mar­tyr’s bleed­ing feet, the saints with wound­less breast,
Alike have sought thy gold­en seat to win their rest.

There, calm­ing all alarms, thy cross of love is traced,
Outstretching sa­lu­ta­ry arms, to bless the waste;
The sin­ner there can plead in ev­er list­en­ing ears;
On hope and thee, can sweet­ly feed, and dry his tears.

So this our fes­tal day ce­les­ti­al joy shall raise,
While lips and hearts, con­joined, es­say to hymn thy praise!
The ve­ry stones shall ring, re­sound each holy wall,
With Thee, Thy­self the rock, our hea­ven, our all!