Jerusalem! my Happy Home.

This favorite heart-uplifting hymn, it is perhaps not generally known, was written by an old sacred writer, between two hundred and fifty and three hundred years ago. It was discovered in a volume of manuscript poems in the British Museum, as old as the reign of James the First; and may itself be of much earlier origin. A recent writer even professes to trace it back to St. Augustine.

A SONG MADE BY F. B. P.

ERUSALEM! my happy home!
When shall I come to thee,
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

Oh, happy harbor of the saints!
Oh, sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness may be seen
No hurt, no ache, no sore;
There is no death, no ugly deil

There's life forevermore,

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.

God grant I once may see

Thy endless joys, and of the same,
Partaker aye to be.

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.

Thy houses are of ivory,

Thy windows crystal clear,

Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;

O God, that I were there!

Within thy gates no thing doth come
That is not passing clean-

No spider's web, no dirt, no dust,
No filth may there be seen.

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 delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.

Thy vineyards and thy orchards are
Most beautiful and fair,

Full furnished with trees and fruits,

Most wonderful and rare.

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green:

There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.

There's nectar and ambrosia made,

There's musk and civet sweet,
There many a fair and dainty drug
Are trodden under feet.

There cinnamon, there sugar grows,
There nard and balm abound,
What tongue can tell, or heart conceive
The joys that there are found?

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 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.

Our lady sings Magnificat,

With time surpassing sweet,

And all the virgins bear their parts,

Sitting above her feet.

Te Deum doth Saint Ambrose sing,

Saint Austin doth the like;

Old Simeon and Zachary

Have not their song to seek.

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.