In the mud and scum of things,
Underneath the whole world's blot,
Something, they tell us, always sings—
Why do we hear it not?
In the heart of things unclean,
Somewhere, in the furious fight,
The face of God is plainly seen—
What has destroyed our sight?
Yet have we heard enough to feel,
Yet have we seen enough to know
Who bound us to the awful wheel,
Whose hands have brought us low.
And we shall cry out till the wind
Roars in their ears the thing to come—
Yea, though they made us deaf and blind,
Nothing shall keep us dumb!