When We Our Wearied Limbs To Rest


When we, our wearied limbs to rest,
Sat down by proud Euphrates’ stream,
We wept with doleful thoughts oppressed,
And Zion was our mournful theme.

Our harps, that when with joy we sung,
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings neglected hung
On willow-trees that withered there.

Oh Salem, our once happy seat,
When I of thee forgetful prove,
Let then my trembling hand forget
The speaking strings with art to move!

If I to mention thee forbear,
Perpetual silence be my doom;
Or if my chiefest joy compare
With thee, Jerusalem, my home!