Thy ioyes when shall I see.
O happie harbour of the saints,
O sweete and pleasant soyle,
In thee noe sorrow may be founde,
Noe greefe, noe care, noe toyle.
Hierusalem, Hierusalem,
God grant I once may see
Thy endless ioyes, and of the same
Partaker aye to bee.
Thy wales are made of precious stones,