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!