High hang our harps on the willows,
Swaying with pride forgone,
Like convicts sent to the gallows
On the banks of Babylon.
On the bitter banks of Babylon,
Where we wept and recalled
Our home and Temple, Mount Tzion,
On whose glory ruin befalled.
Retrieve the harps that were regal;
Strike again Dovid’s chord.
Renewed will be the Old People,
And Evil dealt its reward.
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