[THIS grand old poem is generally attributed to David Dickson, a Scotch clergyman of the seventeenth century, born 1583, died 1662, but portions of it bear evidence of much earlier date. It seems probable, on a critical examination, that the Hymn has received contributions from various hands, and that it is partly derived from translations from the Latin, and possibly Dr. Dickson put it into its present shape. Since his day the hymn has been divided and altered in numerous ways, and adapted to the use of all denominations of worshippers in the Christian Church. The hymn in its entirety is now so seldom met with, and its various portions so hallowed by long use and holy associations, that its insertion amongst favourite English Poems possesses a claim which few other hymns in the language possess.] O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end Thy joys when shall I see? O, happy harbor of God's saints! In thee no sickness is at all, There is no death nor ugly night, No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, There lust and lucre cannot dwell, Jerusalem Jerusalem ! Would God I were in thee ! O that my sorrows had an end, No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, No woful night is there; No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard No well-away, no fear. Jerusalem the city is Of God our King alone; The Lamb of God, the light thereof, Sits there upon His throne. O God that I Jerusale.n With speed may go behold! For why? the pleasures there abound Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold--- Thy walls are made of precious stone, Within thy gates nothing can come Take me to Thy Jerusalem, And place me with Thy saints! Who there are crowned with glory great, And see God face to face, They triumph still, and aye rejoice Most happy is their case. But we that are in banishment, Continually do moan; We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep— Perpetually we groan. Our sweetness mixed is with gall, Our pleasures are but pain, Our joys not worth the looking on- But there they live in such delight, O my sweet home, Jerusalem ! Thy King sitting upon His throne, Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, So wonderfully rare, Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, Thy gardens, and thy goodly walks, Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. There cinnamon and sugar grow, There nard and balm abound; No tongue can tell, no heart can think, There nectar and ambrosia spring- Are trod down under feet. Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, The flood of life doth flow; Upon the banks, on every side, The trees of life do grow. These trees each month yield ripened fruit For evermore they spring; And all the nations of the world O that my sorrows had an end, There David stands, with harp in hand, A thousand times that man were blest "Te deum' doth St. Ambrose sing, St. Austin doth the like; Old Simeon and Zacharie Have not their songs to seek. With all blest saints whose harmony Jerusalem Jerusalem ! Thy joys fain would I see ; That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, Jerusalem, the happy home-- O comely queen with glory clad, All fair thou art, exceeding bright- I long to see Jerusalem, The comfort of us all ; For thou art fair and beautiful— No darkness dare appear No night, no shade, no winter foul No candle needs, no moon to shine, No glittering star to light; For Christ, the King of Righteousness, For ever shineth bright. |