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 harbour of God's saints!

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In thee no sorrow can be found,

Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.

No murky cloud o'ershadows thee,

Nor gloom, nor darksome night;

But every soul shines as the sun;

For God himself gives light.

O my sweet home, Jerusalem,

Thy joys when shall I see?

The King that sitteth on thy throne

In his felicity?

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks

Continually are green,

Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

Right through thy streets, with silver sound,

The living waters flow,

And on the banks, on either side,

The trees of life do grow.

Those trees for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring:

There evermore the angels are

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!