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Poem by Countee Cullen
Simon the Cyrenian Speaks
He never spoke a word to me, And yet He called my name; He never gave a sign to me, And yet I knew and came. At first I said, ФI will not bear His cross upon my back; He only seeks to place it there Because my skin is black.Ф But He was dying for a dream, And He was very meek, And in His eyes there shone a gleam Men journey far to seek. It was Himself my pity bought; I did for Christ alone What all of Rome could not have wrought With bruise of lash or stone.
Countee Cullen's other poems:
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