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’sContinue reading “For there we hung our harps”