Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine.

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind

The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Whatever lives is granted breath But by the grace and sufferance of Death.

The key to all strange things is in thy heart..../ My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.

[W]e have always resented the natural inclination of most white people to demand spirituals the moment it is known that a Negro is about to sing. So often the request has seemed to savor of the feeling that we could do this and this alone.