Classic Poem

Behold from heav'n, O God of grace!
And pity us—an injur'd race;
Thou know'st the wrongs we're doom'd to bear,
Thou see'st the heavy chains we wear.

Shut out from human sympathy,
We look alone, O Lord! to thee;
When wilt thou come and give us peace?
When wilt thou bid our bondage cease?

How long must we still bear the yoke,
The shame, the toil, the smarting stroke?
How long, from all our kindred torn,
Our helpless, hopeless mis'ries mourn?

Rise, Lord! and make thy justice known;
Thou art our Master—thou alone;
Made in thine image, own us thine,
And we will own thy hand divine.