Jerusalem on high

My song and city is,

My home whene’er I die,

The centre of my bliss:

O happy place! when shall I be,

My God, with Thee, to see Thy face!

There dwells my Lord, my King,

Judged here unfit to live;

There angels to Him sing

And lowly homage give.

The patriarchs of old

There from their travels cease;

The prophets there behold

Their long’d for Prince of Peace.

The Lamb's apostles there

I might with joy behold;

The harpers I might hear

Harping on harps of gold.

The bleeding martyrs, they

Within those courts are found;

All cloth’d in pure array,

Their scars with glory crown'd.

Ah me! ah me! that I

In Kedar’s tents here stay:

No place like this on high;

Thither, Lord, guide my way.