Quaint, Outlandish Heathen Gods Black Men Fashion

Lord, Forgive Me If My Need Sometimes Shapes A Human Creed.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

I Was Reared In The Conservative Atmosphere Of A Methodist Parsonage.

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set