Y the waters of Babylon wearied we lay, Amidst us how many a sorrowful breast! For we sadly remembered our homes far away, Yea, we wept when we thought upon Zion the blest.
Our harps, whose loved tones of soft melody gave A voice to our joy in those loveliest bowers, We hung on the willows that wept o'er the wave, As if in soft pity for sorrow like ours.
But the foes who oppressed us in bondage and fear, Asked music and mirth of a heart-broken band, And they who had torn us from all we held dear, Cried, "Sing us a song of your beautiful land!"
But oh, how shall we pour forth Thy melody, Lord, In a land where as strangers and bondmen we roam; Oh, how shall we here wake the echoing chord, Which so often has gladdened our own happy home!
If I e'er should forget thee, O Zion, beloved, Let my hand never sweep the bright harpstrings again; Let my tongue rest for ever in silence unmoved, If I love Thee not more than all earth can contain.
But remember the children of Edom, O Lord, In Thy once-loved Jerusalem's stormiest day, How they dashed down her bulwarks with fire and with sword, And shouted, "Sweep all her foundations away!"
Oh, daughter of Babylon, yet thou shalt see A day of destruction, of anguish, and gloom; And thrice happy the man who shall pour upon Thee A lot like our own, a more terrible doom.
Yea, happy the man, when thy last hour is come, And the clouds of dark horror are gathering around, Who shall bear off thy babes from thy desolate home, And dash them in pieces against the cold ground.
Y the waters of Babylon wearied we lay,
Y the waters of Babylon wearied we lay,