A LITANY AT ATLANTA

Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words! Thou art still the God of our black fathers and in Thy soul's soul sit some soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.

But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror
to our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path.

Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward,
and without, the liar. Whither? To death?

Amen! Welcome dark sleep!

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this! Let
the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that
clamoring and clawing within to whose voice we would not listen, yet
shudder lest we must,--and it is red, Ah! God: It is a red and awful-shaped!

Selah!

In yonder East trembles a star.

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!

Thy will, O Lord, be done!

Kyrie Eleison!

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little
children.

Our voices sink in silence and in night.

Hear us, good Lord!