On The Dedication Of Dorothy Hall
TUSKEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1901.
Not to the midnight of the gloomy past,
Do we revert to-day; we look upon
The golden present and the future vast
Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn.
Nor shall the sorrows of departed years
The sweetness of our tranquil souls annoy,
The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears,
And clears our eyes to see this later joy.
Not ever in the years that God hath given
Have we gone friendless down the thorny way,
Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven
By flashes from His own eternal day.
The women of a race should be its pride;
We glory in the strength our mothers had,
We glory that this strength was not denied
To labor bravely, nobly, and be glad.
God give to these within this temple here,
Clear vision of the dignity of toil,
That virtue in them may its blossoms rear
Unspotted, fragrant, from the lowly soil.
God bless the givers for their noble deed,
Shine on them with the mercy of Thy face,
Who come with open hearts to help and speed
The striving women of a struggling race.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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That Unconditional Love
Gone are those caring loving hands that held me tenderly,
that helped me wade the stormy shores, oh so bravely,
The older you got the stronger and wiser you seemed to me
You read my hurt, my need you saw and treated me so gently
It was a mother and daughter bond that could, can never be torn
Sadly one day, when I was far away, the angels came, you were gone.
Wet eyes, pain numbed, I walked on stumbling as the years rolled by
I turned to God Almighty and with many a prayer I did sigh,
As into darkness I was plunged and felt this world I no longer could ride
Then came, four motherly angels, to dry the tears, that I could not hide.
They blossomed into beautiful flowers with sweetness so fragrant.
I see your smile my dearest mum, in their young face with strength abundant
Now, I stroll along life's journey, as they lend me their ears and words of love
God never fails us, as he showers the glory of his blessings from above.
Hand in hand, I move along with my girls, to face the dawn of every glorious morn.
Mothers they truly are, Melina, Nadi, Firasa and Marie with dignity I move on!
Daughters are sisters and friends and become our dearest mothers till the end
The precious gift making our day so starry in the darkest night and hearts do amend.
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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The Little Homes
We have heard the cheering, brothers,
We have heard the martial peal;
We have seen the soldiers marching
And the glint of sun and steel.
We have heard the songs, the shouting;
But, while forth the soldier roams,
Who has heard the weeping, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
We have seen the gay processions
And the careless, laughing crowds.;
We have seen the banners waving
Out against the peaceful clouds;
Yet, while colors proudly flutter
Over noble spires and domes,
Who has seen the mourning, brothers,
In the Little Homes?
From the Little Homes that nestle
Where the smiling fields sweep wide,
From the Little Homes that huddle
In the city, side by side,
They have called the eager fighters
Men who went with smiles and cheers;
Pride of wives and pride of mothers,
Choking back the tears!
Women of the little homesteads,
Women of the city slums,
They are waiting, ever waiting;
And the sound of muffled drums
In some stricken Home is echoed,
Where grey Grief is guest to-day.
And to-morrow? Nay, the others
Still must wait - and pray.
What the Little Homes shall suffer,
What the Little Homes shall pay
Must be more than sturdy fighters,
More than women's grief to-day.
In the years that follow after,
Be our battles won or lost,
In the Little Homes, my brothers,
They shall pay the cost.
They shall pay the cost of glory,
They shall pay the price of peace,
Years and many long years after
All the sounds of battle cease.
When the sword is sheathed - or broken
When the battle flag is furled,
Still the Little Homes must suffer
Over all the World.
Have you seen the old grey mothers
Smiling to the ringing cheers?
Have you seen the young wives striving
Bravely to hold back the tears?
Have you seen the young girl marching
By her soldier-lover's side?
Have you, seen our country's women
All aglow with pride?
Then, shall we think shame, my brothers,
To give thanks upon our knees
That the land we love should hold them
Wives and mothers such as these?
Women who still hide their sorrow
As their soldiers march away,
Turning brave and steadfast faces
To the light of day?
Oh, the Little Homes are Cheerful
Little Homes that know no pride
But the pride of sacrificing
Loved ones to the battle tide!
They are many, many brothers,
And their sacrifice is great.
Shrines are they and sacred places,
Where the women wait.
Aye, the Little Homes are holy
At the closing of the day,
When young wives must face their sorrow,
When grey mothers kneel to pray,
Facing, all alone, dread visions
Of the land the soldier roams,
Then God heed the sobbing, brothers,
In the Little Homes.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Women I
They are like life to human
And they can contain life in them
They can replicate life
and put a smile in someones face
Women! you are amazing!
Like food to souls
And worm to birds
Water to flowers
And glow beyond flowers
Women? you are pillars too every family
Props and posts to all nations
Women? you can give life and take life
Women everywhere life anywhere
Women! you can hide away your sorrows
And make world happy in your worries.
Silence is not always golden
Break away your silence
Women? your troubles are heard by the world
And you strength admired by your virtue.
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Pride!
All I have left is my pride.
But a shield, yet a buoy.
Keeps me afloat against vice,
Against your spite that annoy.
My pride; a protective pride,
Affords me dignity's joy-
When you want to stomp my might,
When you want to stop my force.
It is my pride that clears my sight.
Thus leave me to my proud course.
Lest you feel my wrath ever fierce.
My pride, the only dignity I know.
Only wall between trodden tears;
The defender of weak, helpless souls,
Those looking upon the rich with fear.
Pride; the bold titanium shield of sorts.
Blocking the piercing stares and jeers.
Unseen strength that can't be stopped.
Can't be broken; is my pride here.
poem by Real Wordz
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Women Of Courage
Women of courage, women of strength ,
Women of faith and devotion.
Mothers of children with spirits so strong
Who may have unbridled imaginations. REFRAIN: They are women, women of courage
They are Christians, towers of strength.
They are women who put Jesus first in life
Show’ ring His love on all those they greet. Women with losses, women who love,
Whose strength and whose courage comes from above,
Whether they're mothers; or loving Aunties,
It's plain to see Jesus’ love shines through them. REFRAIN: They are women, women of courage
They are Christians, towers of strength.
They are women who put Jesus first in life
Show’ring His love on all those they greet. Women I work with, women I know,
Whether at church, or other places I go.
Women whose spirits are battered by pain,
But Christ lifts them up, and they go on again. REFRAIN: They are women, women of courage
They are Christians, towers of strength.
They are women who put Jesus first in life
Show’ring His love on all those they greet.
poem by Kathy L. Goings
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The Nobility of Women of Merit
Even precious jewels cannot approach their value,
For the women of merit are priced beyond them.
Their beauty is found in the works of love they do,
And in their smile facing the future that is never dim.
Most arise at dawn when it is still like the night
And wrap round them bands of strength like corsets.
Going out like the cargo ships before daylight,
They conduct their business for handsome profits.
Their beauty is matched by their hearts filled with virtue,
For there is rich wisdom and mercy on her tongue.
Their clothing soft fair linen of purple and blue,
And open are their hands to needy they live among.
Men give them praise and children give them honor,
Since her public reputation is all to her credit.
Eschewing evil for the good at every corner,
They ply their gifts toward works of merit.
Oh to be her partner in labor and pleasure,
For her fire will not go out for the night.
Her company for sure has profit in full measure,
And lifts high the muse of good cheer’s delight.
Faith is her deserved and hard-earned reward,
For her strength and self-respect passes the test.
About her worth there is candid accord,
Among women her title is the very best.
poem by Albert Price
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Glory of Man and Horse
Oh, the glory of the charge!
Man and horse to battle
Never an army too large
To stand in their way
Oh, the glory of the plains!
Man and horse to conquer
Battling wind and rains
To tame the far, far west
Oh, the glory of the sand!
Man and horse to test
Over the hot, dry land
To try their strength
Oh, the glory of the race!
Man and horse to run
Galloping a fearsome pace
To win that golden cup
The Glory of Man and Horse
Oh, the glory of the charge!
Man and horse to battle
Never an army too large
To stand in their way
Oh, the glory of the plains!
Man and horse to conquer
Battling wind and rains
To tame the far, far west
Oh, the glory of the sand!
Man and horse to test
Over the hot, dry land
To try their strength
Oh, the glory of the race!
Man and horse to run
Galloping a fearsome pace
To win that golden cup
poem by Horse Poet
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The Scene Around me Disappears
1. The scene around me disappears,
And, borne to ancient regions,
While time recalls the flight of years,
I see angelic legions
Descending in an orb of light:
Amidst the dark and silent night
I hear celestial voices.
2. Tidings, glad tidings from above,
To every age and nation!
Tidings, glad tidings! God is Love,
To man He sends salvation!
His Son beloved, His only Son,
The work of mercy hath begun;
Give to His Name the Glory!
3. Through David's city I am led;
Here all around are sleeping;
A Light directs to yon poor shed;
There lonely watch is keeping:
I enter; ah! what glories shine!
Is this Immanuel's earthly shrine,
Messiah's infant Temple?
4. It is, it is; and I adore
This Stranger meek and lowly,
As saints and angels bow before
The throne of God thrice Holy!
Faith through the veil of flesh can see
The Face of Thy Divinity,
My Lord, my God, my Saviour!
poem by James Montgomery
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Conductor Bradley
A railway conductor who lost his life in an accident on a Connecticut
railway, May 9, 1873.
CONDUCTOR BRADLEY, (always may his name
Be said with reverence!) as the swift doom came,
Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame,
Sank, with the brake he grasped just where he stood
To do the utmost that a brave man could,
And die, if needful, as a true man should.
Men stooped above him; women dropped their tears
On that poor wreck beyond all hopes or fears,
Lost in the strength and glory of his years.
What heard they? Lo! the ghastly lips of pain,
Dead to all thought save duty's, moved again
'Put out the signals for the other train!'
No nobler utterance since the world began
From lips of saint or martyr ever ran,
Electric, through the sympathies of man.
Ah me! how poor and noteless seem to this
The sick-bed dramas of self-consciousness,
Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss!
Oh, grand, supreme endeavor! Not in vain
That last brave act of failing tongue and brain
Freighted with life the downward rushing train,
Following the wrecked one, as wave follows wave,
Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave.
Others he saved, himself he could not save.
Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead
Who in his record still the earth shall tread
With God's clear aureole shining round his head.
We bow as in the dust, with all our pride
Of virtue dwarfed the noble deed beside.
God give us grace to live as Bradley died!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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To Men
Sirs, when you pity us, I say
You waste your pity. Let it stay,
Well corked and stored upon your shelves,
Until you need it for yourselves.
We do appreciate God's thought
In forming you, before He brought
Us into life. His art was crude,
But oh, so virile in its rude
Large elemental strength: and then
He learned His trade in making men;
Learned how to mix and mould the clay
And fashion in a finer way.
How fine that skilful way can be
You need but lift your eyes to see;
And we are glad God placed you there
To lift your eyes and find us fair.
Apprentice labour though you were,
He made you great enough to stir
The best and deepest depths of us,
And we are glad he made you thus.
Ay! we are glad of many things.
God strung our hearts with such fine strings
The least breath movces them, and we hear
Music where silence greets your ear.
We suffer so? but women's souls
Like violet powder dropped on coals,
Give forth their best in anguish. Oh,
The subtle secrets that we know,
Of joy in sorrow, strange delights
Of ecstasy in pain-filled nights,
And mysteries of gain in loss
Known but to Christ upon the Cross!
Our tears are pitiful to you?
Look how the heaven-reflecting dew
Dissolves its life in tears. The sand
Meanwhile lies hard upon the strand.
How could your pity find a place
For us, the mothers of the race?
Men may be fathers unaware,
So poor the title is you wear,
But mothers -? Who that crown adorns
Knows all its mingled blooms and thorns;
And she whose feet that path hath trod
Has walked upon the heights with God.
No, offer us not pity's cup.
There is no looking down or up
Between us: eye looks straight in eye:
Born equals, so we live and die.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The World is with Me
The world is with me, and its many cares,
Its woes--its wants--the anxious hopes and fears
That wait on all terrestrial affairs--
The shades of former and of future years--
Forboding fancies and prophetic tears,
Quelling a spirit that was once elate.
Heavens! what a wilderness the world appears,
Where youth, and mirth, and health are out of date;
But no--a laugh of innocence and joy
Resounds, like music of the fairy race,
And, gladly turning from the world's annoy,
I gaze upon a little radiant face,
And bless, internally, the merry boy
Who "makes a son-shine in a shady place."
poem by Thomas Hood
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Psalm XC
O God, the everlasting One,
In Thee alone, from sire to son,
Through generations all, our race
Hath found a sure abiding place.
Before the mountains rose from earth,
Before the world itself had birth,
Ere yet the heav'ns were spread abroad,
Thou wast and art eternal God.
But man, the creature of Thy breath,
Thou humblest to the deeps of death;
Few days and sad thou giv'st and then
“Return,” Thou say'st, “ye sons of men.”
For, lo, the space of thousand years
To Thine unchanging eye appears
As yesterday to mortal sight,
When passed, or as a watch of night.
As comes a flood on those who sleep,
So over man Thy wrath doth sweep.
As fades the freshness of the grass,
So swiftly doth his vigour pass.
As grass at morn he flourisheth;
Cut down, at eve he lies in death;
Like flame Thy wrath against us burns,
And all our life to anguish turns.
Thou our iniquities hast set
Before Thy face, unpardon'd yet;
Our secret sins, in darkness done,
Thy light reveals them ev'ry one.
And all our days beneath the blast
Of Thy consuming wrath are past;
Our barren lives from year to year
Ev'n as an idle tale appear.
In seventy years our race is run,
And what if here and there an one,
Through greater strength four-score attains
He only added sorrow gains.
And soon the longest life is o'er,
We pass away and are no more.
Oh, who Thine anger can express,
Thine ire is as Thine awfulness.
Lord, teach us so our days to count,
That as we mark their small amount,
Our hearts we may the more apply
To learn Thy wisdom ere we die.
Return, Oh God. How long wilt Thou
Thy grace withhold? Oh, even now,
In mercy hear Thy servant's voice,
That all our days we may rejoice.
According as the days have been
Wherein we have but sorrow seen,
According to our years of ill
Do Thou our lives with gladness fill.
Give Thou to us Thy works to know;
Thy glory to our children show,
And on Thy servants let there rest
The beauty of the Holiest.
To all the work we do on earth
Give Thou, O Lord, enduring worth;
Yea, that our handwork may endure,
Do Thou, Eternal, make it sure.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Hymn
In The Time Of War And Tumults
O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands
Despair and victory give;
In whom, though tyrants tread their lands,
The souls of nations live;
Thou wilt not turn Thy face away
From those who work Thy will,
But send Thy peace on hearts that pray,
And guard Thy people still.
Remember not the days of shame,
The hands with rapine dyed,
The wavering will, the baser aim,
The brute material pride:
Remember, Lord, the years of faith,
The spirits humbly brave,
The strength that died defying death,
The love that loved the slave:
The race that strove to rule Thine earth
With equal laws unbought: .
Who bore for Truth the pangs of birth,
And brake the bonds of Thought.
Remember how, since time began,
Thy dark eternal mind
Through lives of men that fear not man
ls light for all mankind.
Thou wilt not turn Thy face away
From those who work Thy will,
But send Thy strength on hearts that pray
For strength to serve Thee still.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Hymn 48
The Christian race.
Isa. 40:28-31.
Awake, our souls; away, our fears,
Let every trembling thought begone;
Awake, and run the heav'nly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.
True, 'tis a strait and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God,
That feeds the strength of every saint.
Thee, mighty God! whose matchless power
Is ever new and ever young,
And firm endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.
From thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a fresh supply,
While such as trust their native strength
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We'll mount aloft to thine abode
On wings of love our souls shall fly,
Nor tire amidst the heav'nly road.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Children's Song
Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.
Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.
Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.
Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.
Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Women s Strengths
(4/1/12)
Men and women are different in so many ways
Men sit in front of the t. v. ‘s to watch their games
Women will watch their soap operas if time permits
That's how they get their kicks.
It seems to me that this is their dreams
Men look to games for the power they seek
While women look for hearts that are tender and meek.
Men want the powers of fortune and fame
While women use their charms
for whatever they can gain.
It seems that we use each other for
Our own selfish reasons
But the women love to use their charms for the teasing.
Men may tend to use their physical strength
To put the women down
But women know how to use the strength
To turn it all around.
The LORD said: "the meek shall inherit the earth"
Is it the women who give us birth?
Are they really the meek of which he speaks!
Hmmmm I wonder!
I don't mean to put us men down
But I think they're the ones that wear the crown
We are the jokers in the kings court
(have you ever seen a female joker in the kings court?)
While they sat on their asses- enjoying what their mothers taught.
Now I must say this in the defense of men
We get what we want (and deserve) in the end.
So I leave these thoughts for the men and women to decide
Who is the meek? Which one will cry?
poem by Louis Rams
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Prayer At Sunrise
O mighty, powerful, dark-dispelling sun,
Now thou art risen, and thy day begun.
How shrink the shrouding mists before thy face,
As up thou spring'st to thy diurnal race!
How darkness chases darkness to the west,
As shades of light on light rise radiant from thy crest!
For thee, great source of strength, emblem of might,
In hours of darkest gloom there is no night.
Thou shinest on though clouds hide thee from sight,
And through each break thou sendest down thy light.
O greater Maker of this Thy great sun,
Give me the strength this one day's race to run,
Fill me with light, fill me with sun-like strength,
Fill me with joy to rob the day its length.
Light from within, light that will outward shine,
Strength to make strong some weaker heart than mine,
Joy to make glad each soul that feels its touch;
Great Father of the sun, I ask this much.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Glory Days Glory Days
Glory days glory days
I feel so good
Because I am alive again during this brand new day that my beloved God Gave to me alone
And I say thank you to God for giving me this brand new day
That I am starting to enjoy it very much
Glory days glory days
I am not a handsome men either
But also I am not a millionaire
Because women loves money and power
And women is more down to earth than men
Also women loves to show their feelings and affection
But men doesn't do that
And I believe that men is much rharder on them selves than on the Women
Also I want to say that I am happy being me
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Ode to Ethiopia
O Mother Race! to thee I bring
This pledge of faith unwavering,
This tribute to thy glory.
I know the pangs which thou didst feel,
When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,
With thy dear blood all gory.
Sad days were those-ah, sad indeed!
But through the land the fruitful seed
Of better times was growing.
The plant of freedom upward sprung,
And spread its leaves so fresh and young-
Its blossoms now are blowing.
On every hand in this fair land,
Proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand
Beside their fairer neighbor;
The forests flee before their stroke,
Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,-
They stir in honest labour.
They tread the fields where honour calls;
Their voices sound through senate halls
In majesty and power.
To right they cling; the hymns they sing
Up to the skies in beauty ring,
And bolder grow each hour.
Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul;
Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll
In characters of fire.
High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky
Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly,
And truth shall lift them higher.
Thou hast the right to noble pride,
Whose spotless robes were purified
By blood's severe baptism.
Upon thy brow the cross was laid,
And labour's painful sweat-beads made
A consecrating chrism.
No other race, or white or black,
When bound as thou wert, to the rack,
So seldom stooped to grieving;
No other race, when free again,
Forgot the past and proved them men
So noble in forgiving.
Go on and up! Our souls and eyes
Shall follow thy continuous rise;
Our ears shall list thy story
From bards who from thy root shall spring,
And proudly tune their lyres to sing
Of Ethiopia's glory.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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