JERUSALEM, MY HAPPY HOME
A few verses of this hymn, modernized, are familiar to most, but the complete poem, is little known, it was composed by a prisoner in the Tower of London, during the time of religious persecution the original manuscript signed, “F.B.P.”, is now in the British Museum.)
Hierusalem, my happie 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 pleasent soyle!
In thee noe sorrow may be found,
Noe griefe, noe care, noe toyle.
In thee noe sicknesse may be seene,
Noe hurt, noe acke, noe sore;
There is noe death, nor ugly dole
But life for evermore.
Noe damplish 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.
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 turrettes and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles doth shine;
Thy verrie streets are paved with gouldÂ—
Surpassing cleare and fine
Thy houses are of yvorie
Thy windows crystal cleare
Thy tyies are made of beaten gould
Oh, God, that I were there.
Within thy gates doth nothing come
That is not passinge 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 stille remaine.
But there they live in such delight
Such pleasure and such play
As that to them a thousand yeares
Doth seeme as yesterday.
Thy vineyardes and thy orchards are
Most beautiful and faire;
Full furnished with trees and fruits,
Exceedinge riche and rare.
There cinnamon, there sugar growe,
There narde and balme abound;
What tongue can tell, 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.
Hierusalam my happie home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joyes that I might see!