Jerusalem on high, My song and city is, My home whene'er I die, The centre of my bliss.

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 clothed in pure array Their scars with glory crown'd.

Ah, woe is me, that In Kedar's tents here stay; No place like that on high; Lord, thither guide my way.