Exult! O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! From the Latin of BERNARD DE MORLAIX. Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE. * * * * * THE NEW JERUSALEM; OR, THE SOUL'S BREATHING AFTER THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. "Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, Take this rude song in better part." O mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end-- Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbor of God's saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrows can be found-- No grief, no care, no toil. In thee no sickness is at all, No hurt, nor any sore; There is no death nor ugly night, But life for evermore. No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, No cloud nor darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun-- For God himself gives light. There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. But pleasures every way. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Would God I were in thee! Oh! that my sorrows had an end, Thy joys that I might see! No pains, no pangs, no grieving griefs, No woful night is there; No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard-- No well-away, no fear. Jerusalem the city is Of God our king alone; The Lamb of God, the light thereof, Sits there upon His throne. O God! that I Jerusalem With speed may go behold! For why? the pleasures there abound Which here cannot be told. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine-- With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, Surpassing pure and fine. Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold-- There angels do appear. Thy walls are made of precious stone, Thy bulwarks diamond square, Thy gates are made of orient pearl-- O God! if I were there! Within thy gates no thing can come That is not passing clean; No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, No filth may there be seen. Jehovah, Lord, now come away, And end my griefs and plaints-- Take me to Thy Jerusalem, And place me with Thy saints! Who there are crowned with glory great, And see God face to face, They triumph still, and aye rejoice-- Most happy is their case. But we that are in banishment, Continually do moan; We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep-- Perpetually we groan. Our sweetness mixèd is with gall, Our pleasures are but pain, Our joys not worth the looking on-- Our sorrows aye remain. But there they live in such delight, Such pleasure and such play, That unto them a thousand years Seems but as yesterday.