The Holy City, New Jerusalem

Jerusalem is built of gold, Of crystal, pearl, and gem: Oh fair thy lustres manifold, Thou fair Jerusalem! Thy citizens who walk in white Have nought to do with day or night, And drink the river of delight.

Jerusalem makes melody For simple joy of heart; An organ of full compass she, One-tuned thro’ every part: While not to day or night belong Her matins and her evensong, The one thanksgiving of her throng.

Jerusalem a garden is, A garden of delight; Leaf, flower, and fruit make fair her trees, Which see not day or night: Beside her River clear and calm The Tree of Life grows with the Palm, For triumph and for food and balm.

Jerusalem, where song nor gem Nor fruit nor waters cease, God bring us to Jerusalem, God bring us home in peace; The strong who stand, the weak who fall, The first and last, the great and small, Home one by one, home one and all.

When wickedness is broken as a tree Paradise comes to light, ah holy land! Whence death has vanished like a shifting sand, And barrenness is banished with the sea. Its bulwarks are salvation fully manned, All gems it hath for glad variety, And pearls for pureness radiant glimmeringly, And gold for grandeur where all good is grand. An inner ring of saints meets linked above, And linked of angels is an outer ring; For voice of waters or for thunders’ voice Lo! harps and songs wherewith all saints rejoice, And all the trembling there of any string Is but a trembling of enraptured love.

Jerusalem of fire And gold and pearl and gem, Saints flock to fill thy choir, Jerusalem.

Lo, thrones thou hast for them; Desirous they desire Thy harp, thy diadem,

Thy bridal white attire, A palm-branch from thy stem: Thy holiness their hire, Jerusalem.

“She shall be brought unto the King.”

The King’s Daughter is all glorious within, Her clothing of wrought gold sets forth her bliss; Where the endless choruses of heaven begin The King’s Daughter is;

Perfect her notes in the perfect harmonies; With tears wiped away, no conscience of sin, Loss forgotten and sorrowful memories;

Alight with Cherubin, afire with Seraphin, Lily for pureness, rose for charities, With joy won and with joy evermore to win, The King’s Daughter is.

Who is this that cometh up not alone From the fiery-flying-serpent wilderness, Leaning upon her own Beloved One: Who is this?

Lo, the King of kings’ daughter, a high princess, Going home as bride to her Husband’s Throne, Virgin queen in perfected loveliness.

Her eyes a dove’s eyes and her voice a dove’s moan, She shows like a full moon for heavenliness: Eager saints and angels ask in heaven’s zone, Who is this?

Who sits with the King in His Throne? Not a slave but a Bride, With this King of all Greatness and Grace Who reigns not alone; His Glory her glory, where glorious she glows at His side Who sits with the King in His Throne.

She came from dim uttermost depths which no Angel hath known, Leviathan’s whirlpool and Dragon’s dominion worldwide, From the frost or the fire to Paradisiacal zone. Lo, she is fair as a dove, silvery, golden, dove-eyed: Lo, Dragon laments and Death laments, for their prey is flown: She dwells in the Vision of Peace, and her peace shall abide Who sits with the King in His Throne.