Classic Poem

Let Afric and her sons rejoice,
Behold the promis'd hour!
Her God hath heard her mourning voice,
And comes t' exalt his pow'r.

Her dust and ruins, that remain,
Are precious in our eyes;
Those ruins shall be built again,
And all that dust shall rise.

The Lord will take away her shame,
Will soon her God appear;
Nations shall bow before his name,
And kings attend with fear.

He sits a sov'reign on his throne,
With pity in his eyes;
He hears the dying pris'ner's groan,
And sees their sighs arise.

He frees the souls condemn'd to death;
And when his saints complain,
It sha'n't be said, that praying breath
Was ever spent in vain.

This shall be known when we are dead,
And left on long record,
That ages, yet unborn, may read,
And trust, and praise the Lord.