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Hierusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,

Thy joys when shall I see?


O happy harbour of the Saints!

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In thee no sorrow may be found,

No grief, no care, no toil.

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.

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,

Would GOD I were in thee!

Would GOD my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green,

There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers

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 for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring;

There evermore the angels sit,

And evermore do sing.

Our Lady sings Magnificat

With tones surpassing sweet;

And all the virgins bear their part,

Sitting about her feet.

Hierusalem, my happy home,

Would GOD I were in thee!

Would GOD my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

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