JERUSALEM MY HAPPY HOME.
By Editor
Jerusalem! 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,
Oh sweet and pleasant soil,
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil. No dampish mist is seen in thee,
No cold nor darksome night;
There every soul shines as the sun—
There God himself gives light. There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway:
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way. Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
God grant I once may see
Thy endless joy, and of the same,
Partaker aye to be. Thy walls are made of precious stone,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square.
Thy gates are of right orient pearls,
Exceeding rich and rare. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine. Thy houses are of ivory,
Thy windows crystal clear,
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold—
Would God, that I were there! 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 saints are crowned with glory great,
They see God face to face;
They triumph still, they still rejoice—
Most happy is their case. We that are here in banishment
Continually do moan;
We sigh and sob, we weep and wail,
Perpetually we groan. Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,
Our pleasure is but pain,
Our joys scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remain. But there they live in such delights,
Such pleasures and such play.
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday. Thy vineyards and thy orchards are
Most beautiful and fair,
And furnished full with trees and fruit,
Most wonderful and rare. Thy gardens and thy pleasant walks
Continually are green;
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen. Quite thro' the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of life doth flow,
Upon whose banks, on either side,
The tree of life doth grow. The trees forevermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing. There David stands with harp in hand,
As master of the choir;
Ten thousand times that man were blest
That might this music hear. There Magdalene hath left her moan,
And cheerfully doth sing
With blessed saints, whose harmony
In every street doth ring. Jerusalem, my happy home!
Would God I were in thee;
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see! We suppose the writer was looking forward and bringing the future into the present, otherwise he is not in harmony with the Scriptures. Ed.