Who can paint that lovely city,
City of true peace divine,
Whose pure gates, forever open,
Each in pearly lustre shine,
Whose abodes of glory clear
Naught defiling cometh near?
There no stormy winter rages,
There no scorching summer glows;
But through one perennial springtide
Blooms the lily and the rose,
With the myrrh and balsam sweet,
And the fadeless violet.
There a paradisal perfume
Breathes upon the air serene;
There crystalline waters flowing
Keep the grass for ever green,
And the golden orchards show
Fruits that ne’er corruption know.
There no sun his circuit wheeleth,
There no moon or stars appear,
Thither night and darkness come not,
Death hath no dominion there;
But the Lamb’s pure beaming ray
Scatters round eternal day.
There the saints of God, resplendent
As the sun in all its might,
Ever more rejoice together,
Crowned with diadems of light,
And, from peril safe at last,
Beckon up their triumphs past.
Happy he who, with them seated,
Doth in all their glory share!
Oh, that I, my days completed,
Might be but admitted there!
There with them the praise to sing
Of my beauteous God and King.
The Parochial Hymn Book (London: Burns and Oates, 1883).