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7.6.7.6.D.
1 Jerusalem, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?
2 Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare;.
3 Quite through the streets with silver sound,
The flood of life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of life doth grow.
4 Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall,
Our pleasure is but pain,
Our joys scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remain
5 But there they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play,
As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.
6 Jerusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God I woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might I see?
F.B.P.