1 When we, our wearied limbs to rest,

sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,

We wept, with doleful thoughts oppressed,

and Zion was our mournful theme.

2 Our harps, that when with joy we sung,

were wont their tuneful parts to bear,

With silent strings neglected hung

on willow trees that withered there.

3 Meanwhile our foes, who all conspired

to triumph in our slavish wrongs,

Music and mirth of us required;

"Come, sing us one of Zion's songs."

4 How shall we tune our voice to sing?

or touch our harps with skilful hands?

Shall hymns of joy to God our King

be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

5 O Salem, our once happy seat !

when I of thee forgetful prove,

Let then my trembling hand forget

the speaking strings with art to move.

6 If I to mention thee forbear,

eternal silence seize my tongue;

Or if I sing one cheerful air,

till thy deliv'rance is my song.

7 Remember, Lord, how Edom's race,

in thy own city's fatal day,

cried out, "Her stately walls deface,

and with the ground quite level lay."

8 Proud Babel's daughter, doomed to be

of grief and woe the wretched prey;

Blessed is the man who shall to thee

the wrongs thou lay'st on us repay.

9 Thrice blessed, who with just rage possessed,

and deaf to all the parents' moans,

Shall snatch thy infants from the breast,

and dash their heads against the stones.