Torn from our friends and captive led,
'Mid armed legions bound in chains,
That peace for which our fathers bled
Is gone, and dire confusion reigns.

Zion, our peaceful happy home,
Where oft we joined in praise and prayer,
A desolation has become,
And grief and sorrow linger there.

Her virgins sigh, her widows mourn,
Her children for their parents weep;
In chains her priests and prophets groan,
While some in deaths cold arms do sleep.

Exultingly her savage foes
Now ravage, steal and plunder, where
A virgin's, tears, a widow's woes,
Became their song of triumph there.

How long, O Lord, wilt thou forsake
The saints who tremble at thy word?
Awake, O arm of God, awake—
And teach the nations thou art God.

Descend with all thy holy throng,
The year of thy redeem'd bring near;
Haste—haste the day of vengeance on—
Bid Zion's children dry their tears.

Deliver, Lord, thy captive saints,
And comfort those who long have mourn'd;
Bid Zion cease her dire complaints,
And all creation cease to groan.