When I Know the Power of My Black Hand

I do not know the power of my hand,
I do not know the power of my black hand.
I sit slumped in the conviction that I am powerless,
tolerate ceilings that make me bend.
My godly mind stoops, my ambition is crippled;

I do not know the power of my hand.
I see my children stunted,
my young men slaughtered,

I do not know the mighty power of my hand.
I see the power over my life and death in another man's hands,
and sometimes I shake my woolly head and wonder:
'Lord have mercy.' What would it be like . . . to be free?

But when I know the mighty power of my black hand
I will snatch my freedom from the tyrant's mouth,
know the first taste of freedom on my eager tongue,
sing the miracle of freedom with all the force of my lungs,
christen my black land with exuberant creation,
stand independent in the hall of nations,
root submission and dependence from the soil of my soul
and pitch the monument of slavery from my back
when I know the mighty power of my hand!

by Lance Jeffers