1 O Zion, when I think of thee,
I wish for pinions like a dove,
And mourn to think that I should be
So distant from the place I love.
2 An exile here, and far from home,
For Zion's sacred walls I sigh;
Thither the ransom'd nations come,
And see the Saviour eye to eye.
3 While here I walk on hostile ground,
The few that I can call my friends,
Are like myself, with fetters bound,
And weariness our steps attends.
4 But yet we shall behold the day
When Zion's children shall return,
Our sorrows then shall flee away,
And we shall never, never mourn.
5 The hope that such a day will come
Makes ev'n the exile's portion sweet;
Though now we wander far from home,
In Zion soon we all shall meet.
Source: Book of Worship (Rev. ed.) #341