They said God wasn't there 
in the slave grave yard.
For we were guilty
of painting our skins black
as an infant.
We
couldn't be God's children 
in the slave grave yard.
We were not worthy 
of Christian burial,
for we were guilty 
of
fornicating in the afternoon sun
not withstanding 
we were
forbidden to taste of marriage
being 
accounted less than 
the animals
then.
And when we danced a dance
it was considered a sinful sight.
While they held gala parties
at midnight.
No, the rain 
doesn't fall
in the slave grave yard.
The grass grows 
from sweat that rolled off
from the 
burden of the labor carried on our backs
and by tears
shed 
for the sorrow of the damned
or so
it seemed.
For we were told
there is no God here
in the slave grave yard.