Jerusalem

Text:

Jerusalem, our happy home
When shall we come to thee?
When shall our sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall we see?

There’s cinnamon that scenteth sweet;
There palms spring on the ground.
No tongue can tell, no heart can think
What joys do there abound.

Forevermore the trees bear fruit,
And evermore they do spring,
And evermore the saints are glad,
And evermore they sing.

There Magdalen she has less moan
Likewise there she doth sing;
The happy saints in harmony
Through every street do ring.

Fair Magdalene hath dried her tears;
She’s seen no more to weep,
Nor wet the ringlets of her hair,
To wipe our Savior’s feet .