Where Thou hast chosen to re­side,
Great God, fair Sa­lem’s beau­te­ous tow­ers;
The hea­then, with a con­queror’s pride,
And with a foe’s re­venge de­vours!
Thy tem­ple round with slaugh­ter red
Which we ad­ore, as well as dread.

The ci­ty once Thy dwell­ing place,
With dust and ruins cov­ered o’er,
Their rage o’er­turns; their swords de­face,
Made wet with wretch­ed Ju­dah’s gore;
No friends their dy­ing friends to mourn;
No eye to weep around their urn.

The vic­tor’s fu­ry to al­lay,
The bo­dies of our he­roes slain
Become the wolves’ un­time­ly prey,
The vul­ture’s food, on ev­ery plain.
Whose blood, like waves, our wall sur­rounds,
That is­sues from their stream­ing wounds.

Fair Zi­on, once Thy dear de­light,
Does Sy­ria’s loud de­ri­sion grow;
Once great in arms, and famed in fight,
The scorn of each pre­vail­ing foe:
We sink be­neath Thy jeal­ous ire,
And near Thy blast­ing breath ex­pire.

Oh, turn Thy shafts! and let the foe,
Deriding now Thy migh­ty pow­er,
Thy an­ger feel; Thy fu­ry know
The ven­geance of one fear­ful hour;
Who, whelmed in death, across each plain,
Shall dread Thy name, they now dis­dain!

The vale where sil­ver Jor­dan strayed,
With his pro­pi­tious stream em­braced;
Is, by proud Ed­om’s tri­umph, made
A scene of death! a fright­ful waste;
No sheaves our trod­den fur­rows yield,
No har­vests wave along the field.

Oh, drive and ban­ish from Thy thought
That guilt which does our realms de­stroy;
Before Thy eyes be nev­er brought
Those sins that rob of us of each joy;
Our mourn­ful land with slaugh­ter fill,
And more than Ed­om’s fu­ry, kill.

Oh, with a par­ent’s pi­ty­ing care,
Sad Ju­dah’s wretch­ed king­doms save;
And those whose jus­tice can­not spare
Let Thy su­per­ior mer­cy save;
Thy arm, that does our foe sub­due,
Must be both strong and stea­dy, too!

Assert Thy glo­ri­ous strength around,
Thy Heav’n, Thy might, and God­head’s fame;
That im­pi­ous worlds, with dread pro­found,
May own, and trem­ble at Thy name;
Nor ask, in what Thy arm ex­cels,
Who is our God, or where He dwells?

Rise then, in all Thy fu­ry rise,
Be our av­eng­ing God once more;
Prostrate be­fore our rav­ished eyes,
The na­tions glut­ted with our gore;
Our speak­ing wounds in­voke Thy sky,
With a sad voice for ven­geance cry!

Oh, let each sigh the cap­tives send,
From the dark pri­son where they moan
In sad­ness, to Thy Heav’n as­cend,
And calm Thy wrath; and move Thy throne;
And let Thy pow­er, and pi­ty save
The pris­on­ers, des­tined to the grave;

On im­pi­ous na­tions, that de­ride
Thy arm, a sev­en-fold ven­geance show­er;
And crush the haugh­ty scorn­er’s pride,
And quell the loud blas­phem­er’s pow­er.
That we Thy might in songs may raise,
As pleased to bless, as we to praise.