PSALM CXXXVII.
39
No! sooner be my tongue
Mute, powerless, and unstrung,
Than its words of holy music make glad a stranger land.
May this right hand, whose skill
Can wake the harp at will,
And bid the listener’s joys or griefs in light or darkness come,
Forget its godlike power,
If for one brief, dark hour,
My heart forgets Jerusalem, fallen city of my home!
Daughter of Babylon!
Blessed be that chosen one,
Whom God shall send to smite thee when there is none to save:
He from the mother’s breast,
Shall pluck the babe at rest,
And lay it in the sleep of death beside its father’s grave.
