By the Rivers of Babylon we mournfully bent,
With 'harps on the willows' and venture all rent,
For burdened by sorrow and saddened by pain,
We felt that we no more could strike them again.

This, this is a strange land, we will not then sing
One song of our Zion, the home of our King,
No rather let right hand its cunning forget,
Than we to our loved home as recreants act.

O! City of God, though as captives we go,
Jerusalem's weal we'll never forego,
O! soon may the exiles of Israel return,
To sing Zion's songs in their own holy land.