We had no scales upon our eyes;God, if He was, kept to His skies,And left us to our enemies.Often at night fresh from our kneesAnd sorely doubted litaniesWe grappled for the mysteries:"We never seem to reach nowhere,"Jim with a puzzled, questioning air,Would kick the covers back and stareFor me the elder to explain.As like as not, my sole refrainWould be, "A man was lynched last night.""Why?" Jim would ask, his eyes star-bright."A white man struck him; he showed fight.Maybe God thinks such things are right.""Maybe God never thinks at all—Of us," and Jim would clench his small,Hard fingers tight into a ball.
"Likely there ain't no God at all,"Jim was the first to clothe a doubtWith words, that long had tried to sproutAgainst our wills and love of oneWhose faith was like a blazing sunSet in a dark, rebellious sky.Now then the roots were fast, and I
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