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Come round by my side and I'll sing you a song |
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I'll sing it so softly, it'll do no one wrong |
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On Birmingham Sunday the blood ran like wine |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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That cold autumn morning no eyes saw the sun |
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And Addie Mae Collins, her number was one |
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At an old Baptist church there was no need to run |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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The clouds they were grey and the autumn wind blew |
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And Denise McNair brought the number to two |
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The falcon of death was a creature they knew |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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The church it was crowded, but no one could see |
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That Cynthia Wesley's dark number was three |
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Her prayers and her feelings would shame you and me |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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Young Carol Robertson entered the door |
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And the number her killers had given was four |
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She asked for a blessing but asked for no more |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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On Birmingham Sunday a noise shook the ground |
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And people all over the earth turned around |
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For no one recalled a more cowardly sound |
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And the choirs kept singing of freedom |
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The men in the forest they once asked of me |
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How many black berries grew in the Blue Sea |
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I asked them right back with a tear in my eye |
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How many dark ships in the forest? |
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The Sunday has come and the Sunday has gone |
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And I can't do much more than to sing you a song |
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I'll sing it so softly, it'll do no one wrong |
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And the choirs keep singing of freedom |
