W.B. Bradbury (1816–1868)
By Babel's streams we sat and wept,|
For memory still to Zion clung;
The winds alone our harpstrings swept,
That on the drooping willows hung.
There our rude captors, flushed with pride,|
A song required to mock our wrongs;
Our spoilers called for mirth and cried,
Come, sing us one of Zion's songs.
Not songs but sighs to us belong|
When Zion's walls in ruin lie;
How shall we sing Jehovah's song
While in an alien land we die?
O Zion fair, God's holy hill,|
Wherein our God delights to dwell,
Let my right hand forget her skill
If I forget to love thee well.
If I do not remember thee,|
Then let my tongue from utterance cease,
If any earthly joy to me
Be dear as Zion's joy and peace.
Remember, Lord, the dreadful day|
Of Zion's cruel overthrow;
How happy he who shall repay
The bitter hatred of her foe.