Was für ein Volk, was für ein edle Schaar Kommt dort gezogen schon? Was in der Welt von Auserwählten war, Seh ich, die beste Kron, Die Jesus mir, der Herre, Entgegen hat gesandt, Da ich noch war so ferne In meinem Thränenland. Propheten gross und Patriarchen hoch, Auch Christen insgemein, Die weiland dort trugen des Kreuzes Joch Und der Tyrannen Pein, Schau ich in Ehren schweben, In Freiheit überall, Mit Klarheit hell umgeben, Mit sonnenlichtem Stral. Wenn dann zuletzt ich angelanget bin Im schönen Paradeis, Von höchster Freud erfüllet wird der Sinn, Der Mund voll Lob und Preis: Das Alleluia reine Singt man in Heiligkeit, Das Hosianna feine Ohn End in Ewigkeit. Mit Jubelklang dort vor des Lammes Thron, In Chören ohne Zahl, Dass von dem Klang und von dem süssen Ton Erbebt der Freudensaal: Mit hunderttausend Zungen, Mit Stimmen noch viel mehr, Wie von Anfang gesungen Des Himmels selig Heer. Johann Matthäus Meyfart. 1590-1642. The Heavenly City. Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. _Rev._ xxi. 3. Jerusalem! thou City towering high, Would God I were in thee! My longing soul doth ever pant and sigh Within thy walls to be; By faith from earth it sallies, And far o’er stretching plains, Far over hills and valleys, Soars till thy gate it gains. O joyful day, and O thrice joyful hour, When will thy dawn appear, When I, with heart released from sin’s dread power, And joy unmixed with fear, My parting soul commending To God’s own faithful hand, Shall, at my journey’s ending, Reach that blest Fatherland! Then in a moment shall my spirit quit This lower element; In silent mystery high-soaring flit To heaven’s bright firmament, Elijah’s chariot mounting, Borne on sustaining hands, That baffle powers of counting, Of joyful angel bands. Hail, glorious City! O that thou wouldst ope Thy gates of mercy wide, To enter which, with still deferrèd hope, I long have groaned and sighed, While here my weary spirit, In this bleak world of sin, The kingdom I inherit Has thirsted sore to win. Who are these myriads bright, whose glorious band In countless throng appears, By Jesus sent to meet me on the strand Of this dark land of tears? Of endless life the winners, These are His joy and crown, Whom from this world of sinners He chose to be His Own. Prophets and patriarchs there, and Christians all Who have, in every age, Endured the cross, or, at their Master’s call, Braved persecution’s rage, Now, amid joy unbounded, From earthly care set free, With cloudless day surrounded, A dazzling host I see.