James Weldon Johnson on Death (Mid-week Message)

Fr. Tony’s Mid-week Message

June 25, 2014

James Weldon Johnson on Death

Eternal God, we give thanks for the gifts that you gave your servant James Weldon Johnson: a heart and voice to praise your Name in verse. As he gave us powerful words to glorify you, may we also speak with joy and boldness to banish hatred from your creation, in the Name of Jesus Christ; who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

Today is the feast day of James Weldon Johnson in the Holy Women, Holy Men cycle of commemorations.   One of the founders of the NAACP, the lyricist of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” (the unofficial African-American national anthem), early African-American U.S. diplomat, and prolific author, Johnson was one of the great poets who helped the African-American people find their voice.  His memoirs from his consular assignment in Central America in 1906-12, with their pointed description of craven and venal Congressional delegation visits and hopeless and helpless poverty-stricken expatriate U.S. citizens, ring as true today as when they were written.  

Last year, I shared “The Creation,” one of Johnson’s poems in the style of traditional Black preaching in his Harlem Renaissance masterpiece, God’s Trombones.  Here is another poem from the collection:    

 

A Funeral Sermon

(James Weldon Johnson, from God’s Trombones

Weep not, weep not,
            She is not dead;
            She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
            Heart-broken husband -- weep no more;
            Grief-stricken son -- weep no more;
            Left-lonesome daughter -- weep no more;
            She's only just gone home.

                         Day before yesterday morning,
                         God was looking down from his great,

high heaven

Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell on Sister Caroline,
Tossing on her bed of pain.

                        And God's big heart was touched with pity,
                        With the everlasting pity.

                         And God sat back on his throne,
                         And he commanded that tall, bright angel

                                     standing at his right hand:
                         Call me Death!
                         And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
                         That broke like a clap of thunder:
                         Call Death! -- Call Death!
                         And the echo sounded down the

                                      streets of heaven
                         Till it reached away back to that

                                      shadowy place,
                         Where Death waits with his pale,

                                     white horses.

                         And Death heard the summons,
                         And he leaped on his fastest horse,
                         Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
                         Up the golden street Death galloped,
                         And the hoofs of his horse struck

                                     fire from the gold,
                         But they didn't make no sound.
                         Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
                         And waited for God's command.

                         And God said: Go down, Death, go down,
                         Go down to Savannah, Georgia,
                         Down in Yamacraw,
                         And find Sister Caroline.
                         She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
                         She's labored long in my vineyard,
                         And she's tired --
                         She's weary --
                         Go down, Death, and bring her to me.

                         And Death didn't say a word,
                         But he loosed the reins on his

                                         pale, white horse,
                         And he clamped the spurs to

                                         his bloodless sides,
                         And out and down he rode,
                         Through heaven's pearly gates,
                         Past suns and moons and stars;
                         On Death rode,
                         And the foam from his horse was

                                       like a comet in the sky;
                         On Death rode,
                         Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
                         Straight on down he came.

                         While we were watching round her bed,
                         She turned her eyes and looked away,
                         She saw what we couldn't see;
                         She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
                         Coming like a falling star.
                         But Death didn't frighten Sister Caroline;
                         He looked to her like a welcome friend.
                         And she whispered to us: I'm going home,
                         And she smiled and closed her eyes.

                         And Death took her up like a baby,
                         And she lay in his icy arms,
                         But she didn't feel no chill.
                         And Death began to ride again --
                         Up beyond the evening star,
                         Out beyond the morning star,
                         Into the glittering light of glory,
                         On to the Great White Throne.

                         And there he laid Sister Caroline
                         On the loving breast of Jesus.

                         And Jesus took his own hand and

                                          wiped away her tears,
                         And he smoothed the furrows

                                           from her face,
                         And the angels sang a little song,
                         And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
                         And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
                         Take your rest, take your rest.

                         Weep not -- weep not,
                         She is not dead;
                         She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Grace and Peace.  –Fr. Tony+