Hanging Our Harps on the Willows

Hanging Our Harps on the Willows

“Upon the willows in the midst of it,

we hung our harps.”

—Psalm 137:2

      Life experience sometimes brings life to areas of the Scripture that were otherwise lifeless.  What I mean is that there are certain passages that simply don't speak to our life situation until we actually need them, then that Holy Spirit drives those truths into the depths of our needy soul.  I'm sure that we have all had times when we were reading the Word of God and a text just seemed to jump off the page.  It might have been an area in our Bible that we've read countless times before, but in that moment, in that circumstance the Spirit of God brought the passage to us.  This has never been more true then the time of Tiffanie's cancer journey and my own journey into becoming a widower.  It's odd that my time as a widower has now surpassed the time that she suffered with cancer.  Through thhis now nearly two year journey I have found Scripture speak to me in ways that it hasn't in the past.  I've actually been making it a priority to mark a verse in my Bible with a date and why that text spoke to me at that time.  One particular passage that took on not new meaning, but new application is Psalm 137.  Psalm 137 is not a polite Psalm.  It is a grief Psalm.  A matter of fact that entire theme of this Psalm is grief.  Elminate grief and the Psalm doesn't exist.  It is birthed from pain, loss, and suffering.  It reminds me that God can use the ugly things of this world for His ultimate glory.

      Let's quickly look at the background of the Psalm.  This was a Psalm written by people who had lost their home, their safety, their sense of who they were. Exiles in Babylon, surrounded by reminders of everything that used to be.  They were drug away from hearth and home because the nation of Israel refused to repent from their wicked ways.  The Psalm is hard because it's about a people who are grieving the loss of home, identity, and for many of them, loss of loved ones.

      One of the hardest passages to read is when their captors demanded songs.  “Sing us one of the songs of Zion” is what they shouted, mocking them to remember that good old days before their captivity.  Grief and singing doesn't always pair well.  Grief doesn’t sing on command.  Instead, the psalmist says they hung their harps on the willow trees.  That is probably one of the most descriptive images of grief in the entire Scripture.  Hanging their instruments of praise on what is probably one of the gloomiest of trees.  Their song has been silence, their praise quiet, their hope nearly bankrupt.

      For widowers, that image lands heavy.  The harp represents joy. Worship. Celebration. A shared life once filled with music. And the willow—often associated with mourning—becomes the place where joy is laid down, not destroyed, just set aside. Because right now, the song hurts too much to sing.  There are moments after loss when the world asks us to keep performing.  They say things like 'You’re strong' or 'She would want you to be happy' or even 'It’s time to move on (if you have followed this blog, you know we press forward, not press on).'  But Psalm 137 gives us permission to say, “I can’t sing that song right now.” 

      Nowhere in this passage do we find God rebuking them for it.  God allows the harp to be hung, He gives a green light to their grieving hearts to hurt.  Again, notice what isn’t in the Psalm: there is no correction. No lecture. No demand to “have more faith.”  God allows His people to grieve deeply, honestly, and without pretending.  For widowers, this matters. Because grief is not a failure of faith—it is the cost of love. Hanging your harp does not mean you’ve abandoned God. It means you are telling the truth about where you are.  The world might ask us to grieve quickly, quietly, and out of sight....but God welcomes our grief and accepts it as an act of worship.

      I want you to notice one important distinction in this Psalm, the harp is hung, but it is not broken.  This is where hope quietly enters the text.  The harps are not smashed.  They are not thrown into the river.  They are hung.  They might be quiet for a season, but that means the music still exists—even if it is silent for now.  There may come a day when the harp is taken down again. The song may sound different. Softer. More fragile. Maybe even cracked. But silence today does not mean silence forever.  For widowers, hope is not found in pretending the pain is gone. Hope is found in knowing that God stays present while the harp hangs and waits with us until the time comes for us to climb the willow tree and take it down again.

      Psalm 137 reminds us that God does not wait for us to be “better” before drawing near. He meets us by the rivers of Babylon. By the willows. In exile. In sorrow.  He remains while the harp is silent on the willow tree.  He remains faithful in the hardest and darkest of seasons.  He remains.  Write that down somewhere you can see it on a daily basis.  Set it to memory.

      So, if your joy feels unreachable, if worship feels foreign, and if your song is stuck in your throat just remember that you are not faithless, you are grieving.  And God is there.

A Closing Prayer

Lord,

You see the harps we’ve hung on the willows. You know the songs we cannot sing yet. Sit with us in the silence.

Guard the music we’ve laid down. And when the time is right, teach us how to sing again. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. What stood out to you most from Psalm 137?
   Was there a word, image, or phrase that felt especially close to your own experience of loss?
2. What does the “harp” represent in your life right now?
3. Have you felt pressure—internally or from others—to “sing again” before you were ready?
   What did that pressure look like, and how did it affect you?
4. The psalmist hangs the harp instead of destroying it.
   What might that suggest about grief not being the end of joy, but a pause?
   Does that idea bring comfort, tension, or both?
5. Where do you feel like your “willow tree” is right now?
   In other words, where do you most feel your grief—emotionally, spiritually, physically?
6. How does it change things to consider that God meets us by the willows rather than waiting for us to move on?
   What does that say about God’s patience with grief?
7. What would it look like to give yourself permission to not sing yet?
   Is there something you’ve been forcing yourself to do or feel before you’re ready?