Classic Poem

Lo! we come, in deep contrition,
At the mercy-seat to kneel;
Sad as is the slave's condition,
Yet we long refus'd to feel;
Still proclaiming,
That his woes we could not heal.

Now, Great God! we come before thee,
Pard'ning mercy to obtain;
Cleanse our country, we implore thee,
From oppression's leprous stain:
Do not spurn us,
Do not, Lord! our suit disdain.

Must the slave be crush'd forever,
Like an abject, loathsome thing?
Upward springing, shall he never
From his arms the shackles fling?
And, in transports,
Freedom's joyous anthems sing?

While, to earth's most distant nation,
From the skies glad news are borne,
Shall no sound of this salvation
Reach the slave, oppress'd, forlorn?
Shall not mercy
Point him where they never mourn?

Yes, — the gospel, fraught with gladness,
Ushers in the Jubilee;
Soon they pass — the shades of sadness,
Lo! the sun of Liberty!
Shout, O Afric!
All thy sons shall soon be free.