Thursday, December 16, 2010

Through the Eyes of a Slave

Mine eyes are of wisdom,                                                          
They are the windows to my soul,                            
They have captured the memories,
That must be told.

Deep in the belly,
Of A massive boat,
Chained by the ankle,
Shackled around the throat.

I thirst, I hunger, I sweat,
I’m in pain,
What have I done?
Are these men insane?

I’m publicly humiliated and beaten,
Lord, why me?
I’m sold on the market,
I’m no longer free.
I’m told he’s my master,
And must work until I drop,
Picking cotton, chopping wood,
Plowing the field Lord, I’m whipped if I stop.

I see pain in every face,
And I believe in God’s good grace,
But when all is done and said,
I am alive, but I feel dead.

I sing songs of praises,
With messages, by day,
They give me hope, by night,
To plan and steal away.

Harriett said, “Run!” “we’ll follow the north star,”
With God by my side,
And my African pride,
Master won’t know where we are.

Ooooooooooh, freedom, freedom, freeeeeeedom.

Don’t want to be a slave, no more,
No more being sold and bought,
No more killings,
No more whippings and wounds being rubbed with red pepper and salt,
Don’t want to be a slave, no more.

On June 4, 1865,
I saw freedom,
I was alive,
I did rise.

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