But surely the mills of God's justice Will grind out the grist of their fate.
Oh, people sin-laden and guilty, So lusty and proud in your prime, The sharp sickles of God's retribution Will gather your harvest of crime.
Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters, Weep not for the Negro alone, But weep for your sons who must gather The crops which their fathers have sown.
Go read on the tombstones of nations Of chieftains who masterful trod, The sentence which time has engraven, That they had forgotten their God.
'Tis the judgment of God that men reap The tares which in madness they sow, Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime, And Sin is the consort of Woe.
