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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! |