Classic Poem

Remember, Lord, what's come on us,
How haughty foes encroach;
Behold our case so infamous,
Consider our reproach.

Our heritage and houses cease
Now to be call'd our own;
Strangers and aliens have our lease
Of property o'erthrown.

As helpless orphans we're bereav'd,
And fatherless we mourn;
Our mothers are as widows griev'd,
Lamenting o'er the urn.

Water that's free to every frog,
For money we have drunk;
Paid dear for ev'ry wooden log,
So far our rights are sunk.

We on our necks the heavy yoke
Of persecution bear;
We toil, and have not from the shock,
A resting day nor year.

With Egypt we were forc'd to make
A bargain for our bread;
And also hands with Asshur shake,
To satisfy our need.

Our fathers sinn'd, and are no more,
On earth their grief to vent;
But of their sins, as heirs, we bore
The daily punishment.

Base slaves have o'er us domineer'd;
We drudged at their beck:
Yet none have for our help appear'd,
Their insolence to check.

In peril of our life with pain,
Our bread we daily snatch'd;
For round the city, in the plain,
The bloody sword dispatch'd.

The storm of famine's fierce attack,
So terrible hath prov'n;
Our skin was dried and parched black,
In colour like an ov'n.

In Zion, women of chaste names
Were ravish'd and o'erpower'd;
In Judah's cities younger dames.
And maidens were devour'd.

Ev'n princes, with their hands in rage,
Were hang'd up by the neck;
To elders faces, grave and sage,
They yielded no respect.

Young men were set to grind, and stress'd
With work in slavish mode;
And children small, with wood oppress'd,
Fell down beneath the load.

Elders and judges from the gate,
Now cease to give decrees;
Musicians young, their lutes translate
To harps on willow-trees.

Our former solemn fest'al mirth
And joy of heart is gone;
Our merry dance is turn'd on earth
Into a mourning moan.

The crown is fallen from off our head,
The royal state and sway;
Woes us, for we have sinn'd indeed,
And thrown our bliss away!

For this our sin and guilt so grim,
Faint hearts we have and fears;
For these our woes, our eyes are dim,
And blinded all with tears.

For Zion mount's so desolate,
That foxes as they please,
And crafty foes of church and state,
Tread down the spot with ease.

Justly uncrown'd, uncrown'd, we chine;
But thou, Lord, stay'st for ay:
From age to age enthron'd sublime,
No changes mar thy sway.

Lord, wherefore dost thou us forget?
For ever shall it be?
Why left in this deserted state
Are we so long by thee?

Turn us to thee, Lord, and we shall
Be turn'd into thy mould:
Renew our days, restore our all,
And save us, as of old.

For wilt thou quite reject us, Lord,
In wrath to endless years?
Then, where's thy love, thy truth, thy word?
Let faith dissolve our fears.