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On the branches of the willow trees,
    we hung our harps and hid our hearts from the enemy.
And the men that surrounded us
    made demands that we clap our hands and sing—
Songs of joy from days gone by,
    songs from Zion, our home.
Such cruel men taunted us—haunted our memories.

How could we sing a song about the Eternal
    in a land so foreign, while still tormented, brokenhearted, homesick?
    Please don’t make us sing this song.

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