They ravished the women in Zion, and the maids in the city of Judah. Princes are hanged up by their hand; the faces of the elders were not honored. They took the young men to grind, and the children fell under the wood. The elders have ceased; our dance had turned to mourning. The crown is fallen from our head: woe unto us, that we have sinned! For this our heart is faint, for these things our eyes are dim.

It was so unexpected, and yet it shouldn't have been. We had been hearing the same message for almost forty years from Jeremiah: repent, or God will punish you for your sinfulness. Foolishly, we had decided not to listen.

We were still mourning the loss of Zedekiah when the Babylonians returned. They set fire to the temple and looted it, taking the precious gold, silver, and brass instruments we used to worship the Lord away to Babylon. They burned our beautiful city to the ground, and took everyone they could find; men, women, and children, away as slaves.

All of these thoughts were running through my mind as we marched endlessly under the curses, insults, and floggings of our cruel taskmasters. I just couldn't believe it. Jerusalem was gone. We would never see our beloved city again.

Finally, we stopped for the day by a shallow river shaded with willow trees. Our waterbags were long since empty, and the women and children were beginning to faint from thirst. The big trees hung their billowy canopy over the cool, clear water, and we were grateful for their shade. It was one of the only pleasures still allowed to us.

"We will camp here for the night!" barked the commander from the front of the caravan. "Prepare the tents and the cooking fires."

Immediately, we were whipped into action. Cries of pain rang out as slower victims were rushed into compliance. Soon, camp was ready, and we were left to our own devices.

I looked over the small river towards home, where the ruins of our once great city lay in the distance. Now reduced to ashes and rubble, glorious Jerusalem now looked dark and forboding. It brought tears to my eyes. I had been born there, gotten married there, and raised my children there. I had given my sin offerings in the temple, and danced in the streets during festivals and holy days. Now, my husband was dead, killed in the escape for food; my children had died in the siege. Everything I had valued was crushed into a pile of dirt.

"It was so beautiful," I whispered. "So very beautiful."

As I filled my waterbag for the night's meal, I heard a child speaking to her mother. "Mommy," she whined, "I wanna go home!"

"I do, too, dear," the mother said sadly, "I do, too. But we can't."

The little girl, obviously used to getting her own way, began to cry and hit her mother in childish fury. She just didn't understand that she would never see home again. But the people around her did, and the cry sparked something in all of our hearts. Almost of one accord, we lifted a keening wail to the heavens. Our cry was heartfelt and loud. We didn't care. Jerusalem was gone.

O God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple they have defiled; they have laid Jerusalem on heaps. The dead bodies of thy servants they have given to be meat unto the fowls of heaven, the flesh of thy saints unto the beasts of the earth. Their blood have they shed like water round about Jerusalem; and there was none to bury them. We are become a reproach to our neighbors, a scorn and a derision to them that are round about us.

When would I comfort myself against sorrow, my heart is faint within me. Behold the vowice of the cry of the daughter of my people because of them that dwell in a far country, is not the Lord in Zion? is not her king in her? Why have they provoked me to anger with their graven images and their strange vanities? The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt, I am black; astonishment hath taken hold on me.

"Stop all that wailing this instant!" shouted the commander. Instantly, everyone ceased their wailing, all except the little girl, who was still throwing her temper tantrum. Her mother tried in vain to stop her crying child.

The commander strode across the cam to the child's mother, who stood in shame and humiliation before him. "What's wrong with you Jewish dogs? Can't you control your own children?" He picked up the child by the back of the collar, and he hung in midair, still swinging. "Stop that noise this instant!" he yelled.

"I wanna go home!"

"Shut up!" The commander threw the child back into her mother's arms, who promptly slapped a hand over the child's mouth. But the little girl had lost most of her fight, and just laid there, wimpering.

"I tire of all your crying and whining. Bring forth the musicians! I desire to hear a song from you."

We all looked at him in amazement. One brave soul stepped forward and echoed all our sentiments. "A song, sir? A happy song? You expect us to sing in this condition?"

"I will expect of you whatever I please!" he snapped. "Now sing, dance, and be merry, or you will all face the whip!"

The musicians stepped forward with their instuments and waited for the psalmist to begin singing. Nervously, the psalmist drifted into an old favorite.

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth; make a loud noice, and rejoice, and sing praises. Sing unto the Lord with the harp; with the harp and the voice of a psalm. With trumpets and the sound of the cornet, make a joyful noise before the Lord, the King. Let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof; the world and they that dwell therein. Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills be joyful together."

The children were dancing joyously on the riverbanks, and the men and women sang along, laughing and dancing also. The music swelled and flowed, the musicians played their hearts out, and the psalmist sang like an angel. The Babylonian troops even laughed at the joviality of the Jewish people. But suddenly, the psalmist stopped. In confusion, the musicians stopped playing.

"Why did you stop?" barked the commander. "Keep singing!"

"How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" cried the psalmist passionately. "I would rather have my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth than forget the streets of Zion. You require of us mirth and joy after we have lost all we hold dear? You want a song? Fine, I will sing," cried the distraught psalmist, and began.

"Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done unto me wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger. From above hath he sent fire into my bones, and it prevaileth against them: he hath set a net for my feet, he hath turned me back: he hath made me desolate and faint all the day. The yoke of my transgression is bound by his hand: they are wreathed and come up upon my neck: he hath made my strengh to fall, the Lord hath delivered me into their hands, from whom I am not able to rise up. The Lord hath trodden under foot all my mighty men in the midst of me: he hath called an assembly against me to crush my young men: the Lord hath trodden the virgin, the daughter of Judah, as in a winepress. For these things I weep; mine eye runneth down with water, bacause the comforter that should relieve my soul is far from me: my children are desolate, because the enemy prevailed."

That song brought us all to our senses. Once again, as on one accord, we began to wail.

"Stop that noise this instant!" cried the commander to no avail. We refused to let our grief be silenced. Soon, our wails turned to shouts of anger as the commander's henchmen began to whip us brutally.

"Praise God, my people!" yelled the psalmist. "For he shall deliver us from the heathen! Praise the God of Israel!"

"Ha!" laughed the commander. "Is this the same God whom you prayed to deliver you from us? A sorry God indeed, if he cannot defeat one little army. Pitiful, just like his people," he taunted.

The people began shouting to praise God, and at the same time, attacking the commander's men who where whipping them. A battle song was heard in the distance, and soon we were all singing it as a taunt to our enemies.

"I will praise thee, O Lord, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvelous works. I will be glad and rejoice in thee: I will sing praise unto thy name, O thou most high. When mine enemies are turned back, they shall fall and perish at thy presence. For thou hast maintained my right and my cause; thou satest in the throne judging right. Thou had rebuked the heathen, thou hast destroyed the wicked, thou hadt put out their name for ever and ever. The heathen are sunk down into the pit that they made: in the net which they hid their own foot taken. The Lor d is known by the judgement he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God. Arise, O Lord; let not man prevail: let the heathen be judged in thy sight. Put them in fear, O Lord: that the nations may know themselves to be but men."

"Enough of this foolishness! Men, subdue them!" cried the commander, and soon we found ourselves beaten into submission. One by one, we quieted and looked at the Babylonian army with hate-filled eyes.

The psalmist glared at the commander, then very slowly got up, grabbed one of the musicians' harps, and flung it into the top branches of a willow tree. He quickly followed suit with a cornet.

"What do you think you're doing?" the commander demanded.

"If I can't sing my songs of mourning, then I won't sing at all!" yelled the psalmist. Musicians follwed suit and began flinging their instruments into the trees. Bablylonian soldiers moved to stop them, but the commander held them back. "Let the fools be," he said mockingly. "It does not matter."

But it did matter. To us.

I simply shook my head when we left the next morning. I kenw that in a way, the musicians would regret that rash decision. The instruments were the only thing left from our homeland except our memories. They would have to be enough from now on.

As we walked away, many of us looked back on what were the vestiges of our ancestral home. Soon, the only home we would have would be some shack in Babylon. Yes, it was fitting, our demonstration last night There was no way we could grace such sorrow with a song of joy. The songs of home could never be sung in a strange land.

"Mommy," said the little girl. "Will we ever see home again?"

"I don't know, sweetie," her mother said to her. "I don't know."

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hang our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How shall we sing the song of the Lord in a strange land?

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