“We hanged our harps upon the willows.” Ps. 137. 2

T. Kelly   L.M.

My harp on yonder willow lies,
Silent, neglected, and unstrung;
My cheerful songs are turned to sighs;
Sad is my heart and mute my tongue.

Once I could sound the note of praise,
As loud as others I could sing;
But retrospect of former days
No help in present grief will bring.

But why should I give way to grief?
I see my remedy at hand;
Does not the gospel bring relief
To such as self-convicted stand?

Yes, ’tis a faithful, cheering word,
That Jesus came to save the lost;
This truth with richest grace is stored,
And to the vilest yields the most.


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