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I was walking in Savannah past a church decayed and dim |
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when slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn |
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With my sympathy awakened and a wonder quickly grew, |
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'til I found myself envired in a little colored pew. |
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Out front a colored couple sat and sorrowed yet a while. |
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On the altar was a casket and in the casket was a child. |
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I could picture him while living, curly hair protruding lips, |
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why I'd seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried southern trips. |
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Rose a sad, old colored preacher from his little wooden desk |
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with a manner sort of awkward and countenance grotesque. |
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The simplicity and shrewdness in his Ethiopian face, showed the wisdom and ignorance of a crushed, undying race. |
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And he said, "Now don't be weepin' for this pretty bit of clay, |
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for the little boy who lived there has done gone and run away. |
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He was doing very finely and he appreciates your love, |
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but his shore 'nough father wanted him in the big house up above. |
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The Lord didn't give you that baby, by no hundred thousand miles, |
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he just thought you need some sunshine and he lent it for a while. |
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And he let you keep and love it til your hearts were bigger grown |
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and these silver tears you're shedding now, is just interest on the loan. |
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Just think my poor dear mourners creeping long on sorrow's way, |
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what a blessed picnic this here baby got today. |
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Your good fathers and good mothers crowd the little fella round |
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While the angels tend the garden of the big plantation ground. |
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And his eyes they brightly sparkle at the pretty things he view |
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but a tear came and he whispered, "I want my parents too". |
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Then the Angel's chief musicians teach that little boy a song |
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says if only they be faithful, they'll soon be comin' long. |
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And so my poor dear mourners let your hearts with Jesus rest |
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and don't go to criticizn' the one what knows the best. |
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He has give us many comforts, he's got the right to take away |
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To the Lord be praise and glory, forever, let us pray. |