Voices-of-Nature

Who do I commit my soul to when the whip has cut too deep

They say we can’t get into heaven because our skin is too dark

Look at the broken flesh; we bleed as they do; our blood caked in clumps

Who will I commit my children to when the whip has cut deep to the bone

Am I supposed to be brave enough to hold my tongue and not scream out in pain

Perhaps I should make them think they are killing me. Maybe they will stop. They will not!

We thought the boat ride was brutal, and we thought those were the worst days we would live or die

Who will pray for me if my soul is too dark to walk into the light of heaven

Is there a way for my broken spirit to make it back to African shores?

Or will my scarred flesh rot in this cursed land forever lost to the call of home

If my children watch me die, will they be afraid to run, or will they risk the whip for freedom

Who is gaining strength here, he who wields the whip, or our people who grow stronger and less afraid

I am just an envoy leading the charge into our future of freedom, from the whipping post

For every lash, there is a son or daughter who is refusing to cry

They have grown tired of mourning for the dying; the time grieves for the living, and the walk our path from bondage.