Hubris

My fathers came from England, seeking freedom so they said.

“It’s our right, by God and might; and ‘cause his skin is red,

This land is ours by heaven’s powers; it’s simply ours to claim.

The Indian? To hell with him; we white; we’re not to blame.”
But being white don’t make it right; we somehow have to see

Each child of earth, by human birth, is born to liberty.

My fathers went to Africa and found the black man there.

“We’ve work to do; so, we’ll make you a slave our loads to bear.
Because we’re white and live in light, and God is or our side,

We’ll use the whip; your back we’ll rip, ‘till blood runs from your hide.

But being white don’t make it right; inside we’re all the same:

Our blood runs red; inside our head, the same creative brain.

My fathers built a railroad across the Promise Land.

To tote the rail and drive the nail, they used they used the yellow man.

“He’s less than we; and, so, you see, we’re right to make him toil

Beneath the sun, and when he’s done, we’ll drive him in the soil.”

But being white don’t make it right; it’s arrogance and pride

That sees another less than brother, when the soul has died.

My fathers preached the Gospel; they talked of truth and love;

But turned to hate at heaven’s gate, claimed power from above.

And now the God on whom they trod calls us to repent:

We must atone for sins they’ve done or pay the consequence.

Yeah, being white don’t make it right, no matter where you stand;

For God has shown beneath skin tone lies the value of a man.

©Stan Sanford 1996