EPITAPH, a last ballad to Joe Slave

That your skin ain't white don't count
God knows well of your turmoil!
Black or white does not account
When you speak to Him of toil.

You were hunted like a tiger,
held in chains and burned with oil.
Sold to masters, and transplanted
To this island of red soil.

You left families and dreams,
far behind when you were sold.
Forced to work in pain and screams,
and reduced to your slave mold.

Growing old in prayer for dying
Your last day came gray and cold.
All surrounding you were crying,
Angels dusted you with gold.

All of that is gone forever,
GO, TALK NOW TO YOUR LORD!
In His Arms He'll hold you closer,
to The Glory you longed for.
AMEN!