The Cross and the Lynching Tree

by James H. Cone

“It is only when we are within the walls of our churches that we can wholly be ourselves,” Wright correctly said, “that we keep alive a sense of our personalities in relation to the total world in which we live, that we maintain a quiet and constant communion with all that is deepest in us.”[38] At church black people sang of having “been in the storm so long,” “tossed and driv’n,” “ ’buked an’ scorned,” and “talked about sho’s you born,” “sometimes up,” “sometimes down,” and “sometimes almost level to the groun’. ” “Our going to church on Sunday is like placing our ear to another’s chest to hear the unquenchable murmur of the human heart.”[39] African Americans sang of having traveled a “lonesome journey,” through slavery and segregation, often tired, hungry and homeless, “rambling and running,” not knowing where to “roam”—not knowing where to “make my getaway” to find a safe place, free of the “noise of the bloodhounds on my trail.” Blacks have been “tore down,” “broken-hearted,” “troubled in de mind,” “way down yonder” where “I couldn’t hear nobody pray,” in a valley so deep and dark where death is like “a hammer ringin’ on a coffin,” “a pale horse an’ rider,” “a chariot swingin’ low,” and “a train blowin’ at the station.” Blacks have tasted “sorrow’s kitchen”—that “burden of woe” that compelled them to sing a haunting, mournful sound: