By Babel’s Riverside

By Ba­bel’s riv­er­side we sat in tears

Remembering Zi­on’s pride in for­mer years

While on the weep­ing wil­lows there were hung

The harps our grief had si­lenced and un­strung.

For they who led us there a cap­tive throng

Required that we pre­pare for them a song;

Yea

there our cap­tors asked for mirth and praise

Required a song of Zi­on’s hap­py days.

O how shall we thus sing at their com­mand

Songs of the Lord

our king

in this strange land?

O Zion

if I e’er for­get thy woe

Let my right hand its skill no long­er know.

Yea

let my tongue

I pray

all si­lent be

If I do not al­ways re­mem­ber thee;

If I pre­fer not thee

though in thy grief

Above all oth­er joys my ve­ry chief.