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.