[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.

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

I have a rendezvous with life.

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

We were not made to eternally weep.

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.