By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.
Commentary for this verse has not been generated yet.
We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
Psalm 137 opens with captives from Jerusalem weeping by foreign rivers, far from the house of God. Verse 2 shows what they did with their harps — the ESV calls them lyres — and commentators read that silence as faith, not only grief.
Their grief was real, and so was the reason for it.
We can well understand the sorrow and distress of the godly of Israel, captured and carried away to Babylon. Yet it was their own sin that led to this suffering. In that foreign land they sat down to weep, remembering Zion, the city God had chosen as their centre. How could they play their harps? Instead, they hung them on the willows.
Even the choice of tree carries meaning.
Its branches had a place at the Feast of Tabernacles, a season of joy; but from the captivity onwards it has been a symbol of sorrow. On such trees the captives hung their harps in captivity, which the Psalmist foretold.
Their silence was not moodiness. God had chosen one place for their worship, and Babylon was not it.
By the rivers of Babylon there were people who could sigh and cry over the terrible things done in the house of God at Jerusalem. They could hang up their harps on the willows, and refuse to sing the songs of Zion in a strange land. How could they worship Him except in that place He had chosen? There was only one place where they could strike their harps to His praise!
Their captors wanted a song from them. They got silence.
Cut off from joy, they hung their harps upon the willows. Those who had carried them captive asked for "words of song," saying, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion." They firmly refused. The songs would be mere "words" now, with no music left.
They did what they could, and claimed nothing more.
They refuse to sing the songs of Zion there, and hang their harps upon the willows. Their condition allows no more, and they will try no more.
Hanging up the harp was not collapse. It was loyalty to the place God had chosen.
Faith held to the ties between God's glory and Israel, and for that very reason could not sing the LORD's songs... The LORD had His own law, His own place. He had made that place Israel's. Were they to forget it? To forget it would slight His favour and disown what made His mercy special. Babylon they could have — and they had got into it, for their sins had brought them there. But there they must at least hang up their harps, weeping.
God does not ask a cheerful face from a heavy heart. He invites prayer instead.
God's presence gives the heart room to be what it is, whatever its condition. If we are in a strange land, the harp of God may hang on the willows, put there by the very hand that should have woken it. "Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray."
The exiles fell silent because their centre lay in ruins. Believers now have a Centre nothing can destroy.
But we have no such cause for silent sadness. Christ is now God's Centre for His saints, and He can never fail. No power can separate them from Him and His love. As we think of Him as this glorious Centre who never fails, we learn what Christian singing is at its truest and highest.
- Sin — their own wrongdoing took them to Babylon. The silent harp marks a grief they brought on themselves.
- Place — praise belonged to the one place God had chosen, so distance from it emptied the harp of its purpose.
- Honesty — they tried nothing beyond what was true of them. They would not hand over "words of song" with no music left.
- Loyalty — hanging the harp up was faith, not despair. God's chosen place still mattered to them.
- Christ — believers have a Centre that can never fail. That is where Christian singing finds its truest note.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that made us wail [required] mirth, [saying,] Sing us [one] of the songs of Zion.
The exiles from Jerusalem sit by the rivers of Babylon with their harps hung up. Now their captors call for a song, and the whole psalm turns on why that demand was unbearable and why the answer was silence.
The men who asked for the song had sacked the city and carried the singers away.
How could they play their harps? Instead, they hung them on the willows. Being asked to sing one of the songs of Zion in that strange land only distressed them. Could they pretend to be joyful when their hearts were full of anguish? Those who plundered them would add insult to injury by demanding that they sing with mirth one of the songs of Zion.
Writers differ on the motive behind the demand. One points to the reputation of Israel's singers — and to the ruin that made singing impossible.
The fame of their sweet melodies had reached that heathen city before them, and their captors demanded a song from them. But they could not sing, for God's centre for His people was a silent ruin, and they, driven far from it, were strangers in a strange land.
The captors asked for "words of song." One writer weighs what that phrase leaves out.
Cut off from joy, they hung their harps on the willows. They firmly refused what those who had carried them captive asked for: "words of song," saying, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion." Mere "words" they would be now, with no music.
The demand was for cheerfulness on command, from people whose homeland lay in ruins.
These songs belonged to a place. God had chosen one spot for His worship, and the harps went with it.
By the rivers of Babylon, too, there were people who could sigh and cry over the terrible things done in the house of God at Jerusalem. They could hang up their harps on the willows and refuse to sing the songs of Zion in a strange land. How could they worship Him except in the place He had chosen? There was only one place where they could strike their harps to His praise!
There was also a reason closer to home. They knew how they had come to be in Babylon.
Yes, they had got into Babylon. Their own sins had brought them there. But there they must at least hang up their harps and weep. For them it was the place of this world's careless glory, a glory that had turned its back on God. If in sorrow they were tied to the place of God's glory on the earth, then sorrow was their portion there — if the Spirit of righteousness was in them at all.
The captives and their captors did not share the same joy.
The captives belong to another city — Zion, a city that has its own joy, its song of the Lord, and its "day" yet to come. The glory and joy of Babylon are nothing in their eyes compared with the blessedness of their own city. The world that had ruined the people of God, and destroyed their city, would love to hear one of the beautiful songs of Zion.
The world could not understand either their joy or their grief.
What can the world know of the joy of the Lord, or of the sorrows of Jerusalem? To join with the world in its songs and its mirth would be to forget Jerusalem and its sorrows.
Commentators draw the Christian lesson in different directions. Some point to the honesty of the exiles: they did only what their situation allowed.
They refuse to sing the songs of Zion there, and hang their harps upon the willows. Their condition allows no more, and they will try no more.
Others insist the believer's position today is not the same one.
But we are not kept from singing the songs of Zion on our way there. Our harps, thank God, are not hung on the willows of Babylon. We have gone out from Babylon. Through Him we offer the sacrifice of praise continually — pilgrim songs on our way, "the fruit of our lips confessing His name."
- Captors — The men who had plundered Jerusalem were the ones asking for the song. That added insult to injury.
- Mirth — They wanted cheerfulness on command. What was left was "words of song" with no music in them, from hearts full of anguish.
- Place — There was only one place where they could strike their harps to God's praise. It lay in ruins, so the harps stayed on the willows.
- Cause — Their own sins had brought them to Babylon. To sing there would have been to forget Jerusalem and its sorrows.
- Centre — Commentators differ here. Some hold up the exiles' honest silence as the model. Others say Christ is the Christian's Centre. He never fails, so the song goes on.
How should we sing a song of Jehovah's upon a foreign soil?
Israel's captors in Babylon wanted a song from the exiles — one of the famous songs of Zion. This verse is the reply: could that song exist at all away from the place God had chosen?
One writer sets out why Babylon mattered so much, and where the captives' hearts stayed.
Psalm 137 is the one psalm that turns to Babylon, and it does so to give the full history of Israel's sorrows. That time matters, because it was the end of the period of God's presence in Jerusalem, and the setting up of Gentile power. Faith could not be content in a strange land. It could not sing the Lord's songs there, because they were not a heavenly people. So they turn to Jerusalem, which faith never forgets. Babylon is to be destroyed and its judgment is desired; Edom's hostility is not forgotten. The object of the psalm is to show their attachment to Zion during their captivity. Their hearts were never separated from it in the strange land.
"The Lord's song" was not a tune that could travel. It belonged to the one place where atonement was made.
What could these pagans know of "the Lord's songs," or of the reproach they would ring out against the people of God? Sadly, God's people they were no longer — now gone as captives into a strange land. Only in Jerusalem could the blood of atonement be sprinkled on the golden mercy seat, so that a holy God might dwell among the praises of His people. And "without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins." It was a wasteland now; yet their hearts still clung to it and would not let go.
The exiles were not victims of bad luck. Their own past explains the silent harps.
When Israel was carried into captivity, the enemy demanded a song from them. They said, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion." The answer comes back: "How shall we sing the LORD's song in a foreign land?" Away from Zion, their harps were of no use to them. Their hearts and their hands drooped, because their sins had carried them there.
They did not pretend otherwise. They kept inside what their state allowed.
They refuse to sing the songs of Zion there, and hang their harps on the willows. Their condition allows nothing more, and they will try nothing more.
Singing along would have cost them more than a song.
To join with the world in its songs and its mirth would be to forget Jerusalem and its sorrows. The godly man would rather lose his skill on the harp than forget Jerusalem. He would rather his tongue fell silent altogether, if he does not remember Jerusalem and prefer it above every worldly joy.
Their centre lay in rubble. The Christian's does not.
They could not sing. God's centre for His people was a silent ruin, and they were strangers in a strange land, driven far from it. But we have no such reason for silent sadness. Christ is now God's Centre for His saints, and He can never fail. No power can separate them from Him and His love.
Even so, the danger of forgetting is real, and the Lord Himself made provision against it.
Jerusalem was God's established centre. But Christ Himself is God's centre today. Can we possibly forget Him? Such forgetting would be as senseless as the right hand forgetting how to work. Let us never think of forgetting our true Centre, the Lord Jesus, who is Himself the gladness of our joy. We know the enemy will take every opportunity to make us forget Him. The Lord Jesus knew this. So He made wonderful provision for believers by introducing the Lord's supper, saying, "Do this in remembrance of me."
Not everyone kept the ache of exile. Some settled in.
They had made a home in the very place where their fathers once hung their harps on the willows. There their fathers had wept when they remembered Zion. It is the same with God's people now. The moment the enemy tempts them to "set their minds on earthly things," they become careless about their spiritual privileges. No child of God who understands his heavenly calling could be content to live in Babylon.
- Cause. Their sins carried them to Babylon. The drooping hands and silent harps grew out of that, not out of bad luck.
- Centre. The song belonged to Jerusalem. That was the one place of atoning blood, where God dwelt among His people's praises.
- Refusal. With their centre in ruins, they fell silent. Their condition allowed nothing more, and they tried nothing more.
- Contrast. The Christian's centre is Christ Himself, and He can never fail. So there is no cause now for that silent sadness.
- Risk. Hearts can settle in Babylon. The Lord Jesus gave the Lord's supper so His people would keep remembering Him.
If I forget thee, Jerusalem, let my right hand forget [its skill];
By the rivers of Babylon the captors asked the exiles for a song of Zion, and they refused. This verse is the vow that follows — a curse the singer calls down on his own harp-playing hand if he ever forgets the ruined city.
The oath sets two losses side by side and picks the lighter one.
How can the godly sing the Lord's song in a strange land? What can the world know of the joy of the Lord, or of the sorrows of Jerusalem? To join with the world in its songs and its mirth would be to forget Jerusalem and its sorrows. The godly man would rather forget his skill in playing the harp than forget Jerusalem. If Jerusalem is not remembered and set above every worldly joy, he would rather his tongue fell silent for good.
The "skill" the right hand might lose is the very skill Babylon was demanding. The hand that could no longer play for Zion had no business playing at all.
Jerusalem was more than a homeland. It was the one address on earth where sin could be dealt with, and that is what made the ruins worth loving.
Only in Jerusalem could the blood of atonement be sprinkled on the golden mercy seat — and "without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins." That is how a holy God could dwell among the praises of His people. It was only a waste spot now; yet their hearts lingered there with an attachment nothing could break. Their right hand might well forget, if Jerusalem were forgotten. The tongue might well stick to the roof of the mouth that did not lift Jerusalem above every other object of joy.
To drop Jerusalem from memory would not have been mere homesickness cured. It would have been a verdict on God's own choice.
The Lord had His own law, His own place. This He had made Israel's: were they to forget it? To do so would have been slighting His favour, renouncing the special character of His mercy. Babylon they could have — they had got into it, and their sins had brought them there. But there they must at least hang up their harps and weep. For them Babylon was the place of this world's careless and godless glory.
Note what this admits. They knew their own sin had earned the exile.
The vow was not words only. It shaped what one man did with his years in exile.
Two things marked Daniel out. He had an intense love for the place where God's honour had lived, and an undying affection for God's people. He could truly have spoken for his fellow captives in the well-known psalm whose author is not named... This love for Jerusalem surely sent him to the writings of Jeremiah, to find out how long the city would stay desolate.
The same love divided people when the chance to go home came:
Not all were ready to go back; only a small remnant was willing. The great majority preferred to remain in Babylon. There was nothing to attract them to Jerusalem — a city of ruins, with the once magnificent temple in ruins. Those who returned loved Jerusalem, the place the Lord had chosen.
Writers apply the verse in more than one direction. Some point to a centre that no ruin can touch:
Jerusalem was God's established centre. But Christ Himself is God's centre today: can we possibly forget Him? Such forgetting would be as senseless as the right hand forgetting to act normally... We know the enemy will use every opportunity to make us forget Him. The Lord Jesus knew this. So He made wonderful provision for believers when He introduced the Lord's supper, saying, "Do this in remembrance of me" (Luke 22:19).
Others find two objects rather than one, and keep the psalm's grief:
There is a double application of this to our souls. Nothing can make us forget the heavenly Jerusalem. It is the house where God and the Lamb are the temple, and where they dwell. All the glory of the world is nothing compared with that heavenly home. But the church on earth, which will be that city in glory, also grips our hearts. We see it desolate, its walls thrown down, its children scattered or in captivity. Yet the saint's heart is still there.
- Ruin. Jerusalem lay wrecked, and their own sin had put them in Babylon. The people who made this vow had nothing to be proud of.
- Refusal. They would not sing Zion's songs to entertain their captors. Joining the world's mirth would itself have been the forgetting.
- Preference. Better to lose the hand's skill and the tongue's use than to let any joy outrank the place God chose.
- Cost. Remembering sent Daniel to Jeremiah to learn how long the ruin would last. Later it sent a small group home to a wrecked city while most stayed comfortable.
- Remembrance. Commentators differ here. Some point to Christ as the centre we keep in view at His supper. Others see two objects: the heavenly city, and the church on earth, still loved though broken.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to my palate if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.
Exiles in Babylon must sing for their captors, and this verse is the answer: the psalmist would sooner lose his voice than lose Jerusalem. The city he clings to lies in ruins, while Babylon offers him everything — so why does the rubble matter more?
The psalm sets two cities side by side, and each turns out to be the opposite of what it looks like:
Babylon and Jerusalem are two cities. Sorrow was their portion in the one — the place of joy; joy in the other — the place of sorrow. To the children of the remnant it was a strange land. They remembered Jerusalem. The memory of Jerusalem meant more than the foreign joy in front of them. Foreign joy, to sorrow, is the pressure of grief.
This is not love for buildings or scenery. One writer names what kept their hearts in a ruined city:
Only in Jerusalem could the blood of atonement be sprinkled on the golden mercy seat, so that a holy God might dwell among the praises of His people. And "without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins." It was only a waste spot now; yet their hearts stayed there with an attachment nothing could break. Their right hand might well forget, if Jerusalem were forgotten. The tongue might stick to the roof of the mouth that did not lift Jerusalem above every other object of joy.
The oath names the two parts a musician needs: the hand that plays and the tongue that sings. The psalmist gives up both rather than join the world's mirth:
How can the godly sing the Lord's song in a strange land? What can the world know of the joy of the Lord, or of the sorrows of Jerusalem? To join with the world in its songs and its mirth would be to forget Jerusalem and its sorrows. The godly man would rather forget his skill in playing the harp than forget Jerusalem. He would rather his tongue be silent altogether, if Jerusalem is not remembered and preferred above all worldly joys.
It would be easy to read the verse as homesickness. It is more than that. Jerusalem was God's own choice, and forgetting it would set that choice aside:
The Lord had His own law, His own place. This He had made Israel's: were they to forget it? To forget would have been to slight His favour, to renounce the special character of His mercy. They might end up in Babylon — and they had. Their sins had brought them there. But there they must at least hang up their harps.
One writer applies the oath to the Christian. The centre is now a Person, not a place:
Jerusalem was God's established centre. But Christ Himself is God's centre today: can we possibly forget Him? Such forgetting would be as senseless as the right hand forgetting to act normally. And it would destroy our ability to speak rightly for the Lord. Let us never think of forgetting our true centre, the Lord Jesus, who is Himself the gladness of our joy. We know the enemy will take every opportunity to make us forget Him. Indeed, the Lord Jesus knew this. So He made wonderful provision for believers by introducing the Lord's Supper, saying, "Do this in remembrance of me."
The hung-up harps are not the end of the story. These psalms trace a journey out of silence, and the believer walks the same road:
While Israel were in Babylon, they had no songs. On the way home they had occasional songs. After they reached home, they had constant songs — blessing, praise, or thanksgiving, without stopping. So with the believer. He learns that all his mirth before he knew the Lord ought to be shame and sadness; His service now mixes joy and heaviness, prayer and praise. But he looks to live in God's house, and then to have undivided songs and joys for ever.
- Centre. Jerusalem was God's chosen place. Only there did the blood of atonement let a holy God dwell with His people.
- Reversal. Babylon was the place of joy, and the faithful found only sorrow there. Jerusalem was the place of sorrow, and their joy stayed there.
- Cost. The psalmist gives up hand and tongue instead of singing for the world. Silence beats borrowed mirth.
- Loyalty. Forgetting the centre is more than homesickness. It slights God's favour and gives up the special character of His mercy.
- Christ. For the Christian the centre is a Person. The Lord's Supper is His own provision against forgetting — until silence gives way to songs that never stop.
Remember, O Jehovah, against the sons of Edom, the day of Jerusalem; who said, Lay [it] bare, Lay [it] bare, down to its foundation!
Psalm 137 is the song of exiles who cannot forget Zion. At verse 7 they turn to Edom, the neighbours who watched Jerusalem fall and cheered, and they ask God to remember.
Edom came from Esau. Israel came from Jacob, Esau's younger brother. So this hatred runs inside one family, and the prophets keep returning to it.
The prophets often speak of Edom. This people came from Isaac, just as Jacob did, yet they held a deep and lasting hatred for the descendants of the younger son, who were favoured as the people of Jehovah. Psalm 137 tells of this hatred in the seventh verse. Ezekiel 35 dwells on this unending hatred, shown from the first when Edom refused Israel a way through their land… Edom is united with Babylon in Psalm 137 as Jerusalem's lasting enemy.
Behind the shout lay an old jealousy:
Edom took pleasure in Judah's punishment while judgment was falling on it. Of Jerusalem they said, "Lay it bare, lay it bare, down to its foundations!" (Ps. 137:7). This shows, as other passages do too, the hatred and jealousy of the descendants of Esau.
"The day of Jerusalem" is the day Babylon captured and sacked the city. Edom did not swing the crowbar. It stood on the sidelines and shouted for total demolition.
The burden of the book of Obadiah is the doom of Edom, a people known for pride, wisdom and power. Their rage against the people of Jehovah's choice broke out at the Chaldean destruction of Jerusalem. Sadly, the Babylonians needed no encouraging cry from the Edomite as they took their vengeance on the poor Jew: "Lay it bare, lay it bare, down to its foundations!" (Ps. 137:7).
The prayer is not "let us pay them back" but "remember." A long delay does not mean God has dropped the case.
Whatever power opposes God's earthly people, the Almighty will deal with it at last, when the time for His vengeance arrives… God repaid Amalek's conduct towards Israel in the wilderness in the days of Saul and Samuel (1 Sam. 15)… Centuries may pass, as with Amalek, before the judgment falls. How many centuries have passed since Edom cried against Jerusalem, "Lay it bare, lay it bare, down to its foundations!" (Ps. 137:7). God has not forgotten that.
Edom asked for a city stripped to its foundations. What the prophets promise Edom in return is harsher than anything said to the other nations.
Of all the nations that reappear at the time of the end for judgment, Edom alone will have no "remnant" preserved. God will judge the Edomites without mercy because of the way they treated His people. They were the most wicked, and the most eager to destroy Israel… Obadiah, the one prophet who deals only with the judgment of Edom, says, "there shall not be any remaining of the house of Esau: for the Lord has spoken it" (Obadiah 18). Out of all the other nations God preserves a "remnant."
Readers often stumble here and in the verses that follow. Commentators answer that God is doing one thing now, and will do another when He sets the world right.
Judgment will come before the kingdom, and that fact explains what some find difficult — the so-called "imprecatory psalms," the psalms that call down judgment on enemies. Some people do not see the difference between God's dealings with Christians and His dealings with the Jews. They apply to the one what belongs to the other, and it leads them into confusion and error. We Christians do not look for judgment in the world. Our place is to suffer, if we are called to do so… But when it is a question of the government of the world, God must act in righteousness and put down evil. Israel will therefore rightly look for His judgment on their enemies, because they cannot have their rest and blessing on earth until the wicked are put down.
One writer adds that Edom pictures the flesh, our own sinful nature:
Today we do not use the language that they will use then, for we are told to love our enemies. But at that time the judgment of God will be near, and God will call to account those who have afflicted Israel. Edom, simply a type of the flesh, demanded the complete destruction of Jerusalem (v. 7). Certainly, God could not forget this.
- Brother: Edom and Israel both came from Isaac. The hatred showed early, when Edom refused Israel a way through its land, and it lasted to the day Jerusalem fell.
- Cry: On "the day of Jerusalem," Babylon needed no encouragement from Edom. The shout only exposed Edom's heart.
- Remember: The captives ask God to keep the record. They do not plan revenge of their own.
- Reckoning: Delay is not forgetfulness. Amalek waited centuries, and of all the nations only Edom will be left with no remnant.
- Now: Christians are told to love their enemies and to expect suffering. God is not yet ruling the world by open judgment, so this cry belongs to that coming day, not to ours.
Daughter of Babylon, who art to be laid waste, happy he that rendereth unto thee that which thou hast meted out to us.
Commentary for this verse has not been generated yet.
Happy he that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the rock.
The psalm opens with exiles weeping by the rivers of Babylon, and ends with a line that stops most readers cold: a blessing on the man who destroys Babylon's babies. Who is speaking, and against whom is the sentence really aimed?
The verse belongs to a song with a date and a future. One writer sets out both layers before touching the closing lines:
Historically, the psalm sets forth the sorrows of Israel in captivity: prophetically, it expresses the sorrows of the godly in Israel in a latter day.
The closing verses are read as the natural end of that sorrow — the sufferers ask God to settle accounts:
Babylon is to be destroyed, and they long for her judgment; Edom's hatred is not forgotten. The point of the psalm is to bring out their love for Zion while they were captives. Their hearts never separated from it in the foreign land.
The blessing is not on cruelty as such. A close rendering of the two final lines shows what the word attaches to — the man who gives Babylon back her own measure:
Daughter of Babylon, the desolated, happy he that renders to you your measure you meted to us. Happy he that takes and dashes your babes against the rock (crag).
Summarised in a phrase, the person called happy is God's chosen agent:
Ps. 137:8, 9 happy the instrument of Jehovah's judgment on Babylon.
The psalm is not inventing a punishment. It echoes a sentence the prophets had already published over Babylon:
But this Psalm also looks forward to the day when God will measure out His retribution to the daughter of Babylon, and will punish Israel's enemies for the sins they committed against His people. The fate of the final Babylon, given in Isaiah 13:16, matches the last verse of this Psalm. See also Isaiah 47:6.
Commentators do not soften the shock; one admits plainly that a Christian recoils from the wording, then places it inside God's already-announced sentence on both nations:
It is the desolation of those who are away from the place of Jehovah's manifestation; with the prayer only for judgment upon their enemies, who have destroyed or sympathised with the destruction of the home of their affections, in language from which the Christian naturally shrinks. But Edom and Babylon are both doomed by the prophets to extinction as a people; and to this doom of the latter there is distinct reference made here. Judgment is God's strange work: we may be sure, a necessary one.
Another writer takes the children's case further, and reads their death as gain rather than loss:
It is solemn that the children are involved in their fathers' wickedness. However, their early death is actually a mercy, for they will then be in heaven, as was surely true also when Noah's flood destroyed the whole world.
Every writer who touches this verse says the same thing: it is not language for the believer today.
This would also explain the pleas for punishment or for vengeance on the enemies (e.g. Ps. 137:9), which are difficult to understand for many a reader. The feelings explained in these Psalms are feelings of believers but not of Christians living in the household of grace (compare Rom. 12:17-21). They are feelings of believing Jews living in the coming last days.
The reason given is a difference of destiny, not a difference of morals:
They are not the expression of Christian feelings. We leave the world and go to heaven. In no sense have we to demand the destruction of our enemies in order to pass into glory. But Israel cannot have their rest on earth until the wicked are destroyed; and therefore they do demand this righteous judgment, and this is the way they will be delivered.
There is one thing in this closing cry a Christian may share — and one thing they may not:
Even the judgment of those who corrupted it is looked for with joy by the Christian. Not of the individuals, a Christian could not do that — it would be revenge — but of the whole power of evil.
- Measure. The verse blesses the man who pays Babylon back her own measure. The happiness lies in justice repaid, not in violence enjoyed.
- Measured by God. The exiles did not choose that measure. The prophets had already sentenced Babylon, and Isaiah 13:16 matches this last line.
- Measured by an instrument. The one called happy is the agent through whom God's sentence falls.
- Measured on the babes. One writer calls judgment God's strange but necessary work. Disasters sweep away babies with their parents, yet these evils are short, and eternity settles the balance.
- Not our measure. The believer today goes to heaven and does not need enemies destroyed first. A Christian may long with joy for the end of the whole power of evil, but never for the ruin of people. That would be revenge.