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HYMNS FOR |
CHILDHOOD. |
199 |
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JERUSALEM THE GOLDEN. Beenard of Cldgny.
Jerusalem the golden,
With milk and honey blest,
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice oppressed.
I know not, oh, I know not What social joys are there;
What radiancy of glory,
What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those halls of Zion,
All jubilant 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.
There is the throne of David, And there, from toil released,
The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast.
And they who, with their leader, Have conquered in the fight,
Forever and forever
Are clad in robes of white. |
But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea, And linger, shivering, on the brink,
And fear to launch away.
Oh, could we make our doubts remove, Those gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love With faith's unclouded eyes!
Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the prospect o'er, Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood,
Could fright us from the shore. |
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JERUSALEM, MY HAPPY HOME.
Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me! When shall my labors have an end
In joy, and peace, and thee ?
When shall these eyes thy heaven-built walls
And pearly gates behold ? Thy bulwarks with salvation strong,
And streets of shining gold ?
Oh, when, thou city of my God!
Shall I thy courts ascend, Where evermore the angels sing,
And Sabbaths have no end ?
There happier bowers than Eden's bloom,
Nor sin nor sorrow know: Blest seats! through rude and stormy scenes
I onward press to you.
Why should I shrink from pain and woe,
Or feel at death dismay ? I've Canaan's goodly land in view,
And realms of endless day.
Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there
Around my Saviour stand; And soon my friends in Christ below
Will join the glorious band.
Jerusalem, my happy home !
My soul still pants for thee! Then shall my labors have an end
When I thy joys shall see. |
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THERE IS A LAND OF PURE DELIGHT. Isaac Watts.
There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign ; There endless day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
There everlasting spring abides,
And never-withering flowers ; Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Stand dressed in living green ;
So to the Jews fair Canaan stood While Jordan rolled between. |
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