Jerusalem on high
My song and city is,
My home when'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:
O happy place!
When shall I be
My God, with thee,
To see thy face?

The patriarchs of old
There from their travels cease;
The prophets there behold
Their longed-for Prince of Peace:
O happy place!
When shall I be
My God, with thee,
To see thy face?

The Lamb's apostles there
I might with joy behold
The harpers I might hear
Harping on harps of gold:
O happy place!
When shall I be
My God, with thee,
To see thy face?

The bleeding martyrs, they
Within those courts are found,
Clothed in pure array,
Their scars with glory crowned:
O happy place!
When shall I be
My God, with thee,
To see thy face?

Ah me! ah me! that I
In Kedar's tents here stay:
No place like that on high;
Lord, thither guide my way;
O happy place!
When shall I be
My God, with thee,
To see thy face?


S. Crossman