“O Jesus, my Mahstah!
De frien’ ob de poah,
Deah Jesus, my Mahstah,
Yo’ sorrows will cuah;
O Jesus, my Mahstah,
He’s callin’, I come!
O brudder, my brudder,
Why stan’ yo’ dar dumb?”
There was an unsurpassed tenderness and sweetness in Antoine’s rendition of the words, and an unusual hush fell upon the audience, which was broken now and then by the audible sighs and incoherent ejaculations of Eph, and when, as it seemed to Eph’s agitated bosom, Antoine’s voice soared, in its freshness and simplicity, to the very verge of the eternal, he could no longer restrain himself, but threw up his arms in an ecstasy of self-abandonment and shouted: “I’s comin’! Lawd! I’s comin’! I’s heah! Take me, po’ mis’able sinnah, take me home to glory!”
Instantly all was confusion. Men, women, and children craned their necks for a view of the excited African whom Aunt Liza’s frantic efforts could not calm. Eph had become possessed of the “power,” and was deaf to his mother’s intercessions. “I’s knowed it long, Lawd,” he moaned. “I’s been a dreffle sinnah. Jesus, my Mahstah, de fr’en’ ob de poah! O Jesus, my Mahstah, yo’ sorrows will cuah——”