Exiles in Babylon,
They wept beside the rivers
And hung their harps on the willow trees.
Their captors required of them a song,
Even a song of Zion.
"How shall we sing the Lord's song
In a strange land?" they asked.
Had they forgotten that Zion is
Where Babylon seems to be,
The Lord's song everywhere
Forever sung,
Not silenced by exile or captivity?
Now, here, the healing Word
In matchless melody is heard.
No harp hangs hushed
On a willow bough.
Chorus primitive—
Angels chanting, morning stars singing—
Freely flowing
Swells the eternal song of Zion.
