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 al­way re­mem­ber thee;
If I pre­fer not thee, though in thy grief,
Above all oth­er joys my ve­ry chief.