Our altars they razed, and our temples profaned!
The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained!
And us, from our desolate homes did they bear
Afar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear.
And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh;
They looked on our woes with an insolent eye;
Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong;
And then, they required of us mirth and a song!
We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep;
By Babylon's rivers we sat down to weep;
The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound,
We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground.
We thought of our Zion, and sent her a sigh
By each gentle breeze, that went silently by;
But poured not the strains in the proud Painim's ear,
That God and his angels will hearken to hear!