And when the Sole-Begotten
    Shall render up once more
  The kingdom to the Father,
    Whose own it was before,
  Then glory yet unheard of
    Shall shed abroad its ray,
  Resolving all enigmas,
    An endless Sabbath-day.

  For thee, O dear, dear Country! 
    Mine eyes their vigils keep;
  For very love, beholding
    Thy happy name, they weep. 
  The mention of thy glory
    Is unction to the breast,
  And medicine in sickness,
    And love, and life, and rest.

  O one, O only Mansion! 
    O Paradise of Joy,
  Where tears are ever banished,
    And smiles have no alloy! 
  Beside thy living waters
    All plants are, great and small,
  The cedar of the forest,
    The hyssop of the wall;
  With jaspers glow thy bulwarks,
    Thy streets with emeralds blaze,
  The sardius and the topaz
    Unite in thee their rays;
  Thine ageless walls are bonded
    With amethyst unpriced;
  Thy Saints build up its fabric,
    And the corner-stone is Christ.

  The Cross is all thy splendor,
    The Crucified thy praise;
  His laud and benediction
    Thy ransomed people raise: 
  “Jesus, the gem of Beauty,
    True God and Man,” they sing,
  “The never-failing Garden,
    The ever-golden Ring;
  The Door, the Pledge, the Husband,
    The Guardian of his Court;
  The Day-star of Salvation,
    The Porter and the Port!”

  Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! 
    Thou hast no time, bright day! 
  Dear fountain of refreshment
    To pilgrims far away! 
  Upon the Rock of Ages
    They raise thy holy tower;
  Thine is the victor’s laurel,
    And thine the golden dower!

  Thou feel’st in mystic rapture,
    O Bride that know’st no guile,
  The Prince’s sweetest kisses,
    The Prince’s loveliest smile;
  Unfading lilies, bracelets
    Of living pearl thine own;
  The Lamb is ever near thee,
    The Bridegroom thine alone. 
  The Crown is he to guerdon,
    The Buckler to protect,
  And he himself the Mansion,
    And he the Architect.

  The only art thou needest—­
    Thanksgiving for thy lot;
  The only joy thou seekest—­
    The Life where Death is not. 
  And all thine endless leisure,
    In sweetest accents, sings
  The ill that was thy merit,
    The wealth that is thy King’s!

  Jerusalem the golden,
    With milk and honey blest,
  Beneath thy contemplation
    Sink heart and voice oppressed. 
  I know not, O I know not,
    What social joys are there! 
  What radiancy of glory,
    What light beyond compare!

  And when I fain would sing them,
    My spirit fails and faints;
  And vainly would it image
    The assembly of the Saints.

  They stand, those halls of Zion,
    Conjubilant with song,
  And bright with many an angel,
    And all the martyr throng;
  The Prince is ever in them,
    The daylight is serene;
  The pastures of the Blessed
    Are decked in glorious sheen.