Alongside Babylon's streams, there we sat down, crying because we remembered Zion.
We hung our lyres up in the trees there
because that's where our captors asked us to sing; our tormentors requested songs of joy: "Sing us a song about Zion!" they said.
But how could we possibly sing the LORD's song on foreign soil?
Jerusalem! If I forget you, let my strong hand wither!
Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth if I don't remember you, if I don't make Jerusalem my greatest joy.