Singing in Exile
By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
when we remembered Zion.
There on the willows
we hung our harps,
for there our captors requested a song;
our tormentors demanded songs of joy:
“Sing us a song of Zion.”
How can we sing a song of the LORD
in a foreign land?
— Psalm 137:1-4
This psalm does not ring with joyful noise or triumphant celebration—it sings with tears. It is a lament, a grief-laden memory of exile, of people far from home and far from hope. The harps, once used to praise God in the temple, are now hung on the trees, silenced by sorrow. The captors demand a song, mocking the exiles’ identity and faith, asking for joy in a place of pain. And in response comes a haunting question: How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?
This is not a refusal to worship. It is an honest cry from hearts broken by dislocation and loss. Sometimes music is absent not because the heart has turned cold, but because it aches too deeply to find a melody. And yet even in the asking—even in the memory of the harps and the silence that followed—there is still a kind of song. It is the song of longing, the song that remembers what was, and reaches—however weakly—toward what could be again.
You may have known a season like this. A time when music felt far away, when worship was hard to voice, when joy felt foreign. Have you ever asked, “How can I sing right now?” And if so, did you find that your question itself became a kind of prayer? The longing to sing, even when you cannot, is itself a movement toward God. It honors your grief without silencing your faith.
Today, if you find yourself in a place of sorrow or distance, don’t force a song of joy. Instead, let the ache become your offering. Sit with the silence, if needed, and offer God your honest heart. If you find a song coming slowly—a lament, a simple hum, a remembered hymn—let it be enough. And if you are in a place of comfort and joy, remember those who are far from Zion. Pray for them, sing on their behalf, and keep their longing in your heart, knowing that God hears both the silence and the song.
God of the exiled and the brokenhearted,
You see me even when my harp hangs silent and my song is caught in my throat. Thank You for receiving my grief as worship, for hearing my cries even when they have no melody. When sorrow feels too heavy to sing, remind me that You are still near, that my longing itself is a prayer You cherish. Help me trust that the silence of my heart does not mean the absence of Your presence. And when I can sing again, let my voice rise with deeper gratitude, remembering that You carried me through the foreign land.
In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.
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