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?

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

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

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.

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.