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!