CHARLESTON

That’s not rebel blood on snow white cotton fields
Or on press white shirts of my brethren choir
That’s not my flag or my story nightly told
That’s not my full containers or cargo no longer human
But those are my chains - my rope tied to history
On angel oak or tied on cypress stump
And that’s my voice that hymns
Let My People Go

And those the holy lamb where the sun hung highest
Fell
And those the lion’s mane that shook as proud heads
Fell
Upon that last light on our dark skin as dark as night
Fell

This was the fresh blood of the barber the baseball player
The mother the church goer - this was not rebel blood
But that of those who believed in something not against it
And in the warm salt air of the sea their voices shall be heard
Shouting high above the gun shot
High above the roofs
Once more - we forgive