“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.