Sing, little sparrow,
morning’s come on.
The branches are blowing,
here comes the dawn.
The hounds will soon find me,
my run will be done.
I will float down the river
in the afternoon sun.

I was never a killer,
my hands loved to work.
I stole nothing wrongly,
I learned from the Word.
I was quiet and humble,
and did what I should,
my thirty-two years spent
in a Virginia wood.

But he burned one with fire,
he clubbed one in trees,
he talked of the Lord’s Day,
and then gave mine disease.
When he took the children
I was done sitting by.
I found him in the parlor,
and left him in the sky.

I, five days later,
this morning awake,
my stomach is empty,
my legs quiver and quake.
I hear the dogs coming,
but my soul is done.
I sit under this tree
and watch for the sun.

So sing, little sparrow,
a song for a king,
for soon I will meet Him
after I get my wings.