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 from the ground
No tongue can tell, no heart can think
What joys do there abound.

​

Forever more the trees bear fruit
And ever more they spring
And ever more the saints are glad
And ever more they sing.

​

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

​

Fair Magdalen hath dried her tears
She's seen no more to weep
Nor wet the ringlets of her hair
To wipe our Saviour’s feet.