1046    L.M.     T. Kelly
“We hanged our harps upon the willows.” Ps. 137. 2

1 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.

2 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.

3 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?

4 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.