• A shallow wind was blowing,
    The sky was gray and bleak,
    As we walked and walked in slowing,
    ‘Till we finally reached the peak.

    The peak of cotton picking,
    Of aching backs and tired hands,
    Of bloody arms from whipping,
    And near death on our master’s land.

    No family was certain,
    You could be ripped apart right then.
    And when you thought you drew the curtain,
    You were waking from the shouts of men.

    But even through our sorrows,
    We kept our heads held high.
    No one could take our heft from endless tomorrows,
    Only the Lord could let us fly.

    Over battered paths we tread,
    With our beaten backs up straight,
    And all who tried to break us said,
    “These things ain’t worth the wait.”

    They shipped us off to another clown,
    Where they thought we could be won.
    Yet every time they beat us down,
    We gained a lot of brawn.

    And until the day when we can say ‘we’re free,’
    We’ll keep on digging up this land,
    And planting it with cotton and tree,
    ‘Till the Lord gives us a hand.