“He looked for a city which hath foundations, whose Builder and Maker is God.” Hebrews xi:10.
Hierusalem, my happy home !
When shall I come to thee ?
When shall my sorrows have an end ?
Thy joys when shall I see ?
O happie harbor of the saints !
O sweete and pleasant soyle !
In thee noe sorrow may be found,
Noe griefe, noe care, no toyle.
In thee noe sickness may be seene,
Noe hurt, noe ache, noe sore;
There is noe death, nor ugly dole,
But life for evermore.
*This poem was composed by a prisoner in the Tower of London, during a time of religious persecution.
Noe dampish mist is seene in thee,
Noe colde nor darksome night :
There every soule shines as the sun.
There God Himself gives light.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell :
There envy bears no sway;
There is noe hunger, heate nor colde,
But pleasure everie way.
Hierusalem ! Hierusalem !
God grant I once may see
Thy endless joyes, and of the same
Partaker aye may be !
Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarkes diamondes square;
Thy gates are of bright orient pearle,
Exceedinge rich and rare.
Thy turettes and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles doth shine;
Thy verry streets are paved with gould,
Surpassing cleare and fine.
Thy houses are of yvorie,
Thy windows crystal cleare;
Thy tyles are made of beated gould—
Oh, God that I were there !
Within thy gates doth nothing come
That is not passing cleane;
Noe spider’s web, noe dirt, noe dust
Noe filthe may there be seene.
Ah, my sweete home, Hierusalem,
Would God I were in thee !
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joyes that I might see !
Thy saints are crowned with glorie great:
They see God face to face :
They triumph still, they still rejoice;
Most happie is their case.
We that are heere in banishment;
Continuallie doe moane :
We sigh and sobbe, we weepe and waile,
Perpetuellie we groane.
Our sweete is mixed with bitter gaule,
Our pleasure is but paine,
Our joyes scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remaine.
But there they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand yeares
Doth seeme as yesterdau.
Thy vineyards and thy orchardes are
Most beautiful and faire :
Full furnished with trees and fruits,
Exceeding riche and rare.
There cinnamon, there sugar growe,
There narde and balme abound :
What tongue can telle, or heart containe,
The joyes that there are found.
Quyt through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of life doth flowe !
Upon whose bankes, on everie syde
The wood of life doth growe.
There trees for evermore bear fruite,
And evermore doe springe:
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore doe singe.
Hierusalem, my happy home !
Would God I were in thee !
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joyes that I might see !