J ERUSALEM , my happy home,
— When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
— Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbor 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, Jerusalem,
— 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 grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
— As nowhere else are seen.

Quite through thy 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.

Jerusalem, my happy home,
— Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
— Thy joys that I might see!