Oh righteous God! whose awful frown
Can crumble nations to the dust,
Trembling we stand before thy throne,
When we reflect that thou art just.
Dost thou not see the dreadful wrong,
Which Afric's injured race sustains?
And wilt thou not arise ere long,
To plead their cause, and break their chains?
Must not thine anger quickly rise
Against the men whom lust controls,
Who dare thy righteous laws despise
And traffic in the blood of souls?
THE FUGITIVE.
Words by L.M.C. Air "Bonny Doon."
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A noble man of sable brow
Came to my humble cottage door,
With cautious, weary step and slow,
And asked if I could feed the poor;
He begged if I had ought to give,
To help the panting fugitive.
I told him he had fled away
From his kind master, friends, and home;
That he was black—a slave astray,
And should return as he had come;
That I would to his master give
The straying villain fugitive.
He fell upon his trembling knee
And claimed he was a brother man,
That I was bound to set him free,
According to the gospel plan;
And if I would God's grace receive,
That I must help the fugitive.
He showed the stripes his master gave,
The festering wound—the sightless eye,
The common badges of the slave,
And said he would be free, or die;
And if I nothing had to give,
I should not stop the fugitive.
He owned his was a sable skin,
That which his Maker first had given;
But mine would be a darker sin,
That would exclude my soul from heaven:
And if I would God's grace receive,
I should relieve the fugitive.
I bowed and took the stranger in,
And gave him meat, and drink, and rest,
I hope that God forgave my sin,
And made me with that brother blest;
I am resolved, long as I live,
To help the panting fugitive.