Yet Do I Marvel At

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

Lord, Forgive Me If My Need Sometimes Shapes A Human Creed.

I Was Reared In The Conservative Atmosphere Of A Methodist Parsonage.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

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.