In the valley of waters we wept on the day
When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey;
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away!
The song they demanded in vain – it lay still,
In our souls as the wind that hath died in the hill –
They called for the harp – but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hands shall teach them tone of their skill.
All stringlessly hung in the willow’s sad tree,
As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be:
Our hands may be fettered – our tears still are free
For our God – and our Glory – and Zion, Oh Thee!