Let Zi­on and her sons re­joice,
Behold the pro­mised hour;
Her God hath heard her mourn­ing voice,
And comes t’ex­alt His pow­er.

Her dust and ru­ins that remain
Are pre­cious in our eyes;
Those ru­ins shall be built again,
And all that dust shall rise.

The Lord will raise Je­ru­sa­lem
And stand in glo­ry there;
Nations shall bow be­fore His name,
And kings at­tend with fear.

He sits a so­ve­reign on His throne,
With pi­ty in His eyes;
He hears the dy­ing pri­son­ers groan,
And sees their sighs arise.

He frees the souls con­demned to death,
And when His saints com­plain,
It sha’n’t be said, That pray­ing breath
Was ev­er spent in vain.

This shall be known when we are dead,
And left on long re­cord;
That ag­es yet un­born may read,
And trust, and praise the Lord.