[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.

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

I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.

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.

All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood.

We shall not always plant while others reap