For there we hung our harps

On the poplars, drooping, drooping,
weeping in the river’s run,
there we hung our harps, no singing;
singing is now silent, dead.

The songs are gone, our tongues are weeping;
singing is now silent, dead.
Where’s the Zion of our singing,
weeping in the river’s run?

Zion is a memory, fading,
weeping in the river’s run.
Zion is in ashes, smoking;
singing is now silent, dead.

Our tongues are to our mouths’ roofs clinging,
singing is now silent, dead.
We are washed in Babel’s taunting,
weeping in the river’s run.

Give us songs; renew our singing,
weeping in the river’s run.
Breathe spirit in our music’s breathing;
singing is now silent, dead.