1 Why, on the bending willows hung,
Israel! still sleeps thy tuneful string?
Still mute remains thy silent tongue,
And Zion’s song denies to sing?

2 Awake! thy sweetest raptures raise,
Let harp and voice unite their strains;
Thy promised king His scepter sways,
Jesus, thine own Messiah, reigns!

3 No taunting foes the song require,
No strangers mock thy captive chain;
But friends provoke the silent lyre,
And brethren ask the holy strain.

4 Nor fear thy Salem’s hills to wrong,
If other lands thy triumph share;
A heavenly city claims thy song,
A brighter Salem rises there.

5 By foreign streams no longer roam,
Nor, weeping, think of Jordan’s flood;
In every clime behold a home,
In every temple see thy God.