Thursday – Thanksgiving
I’ve been so focused on U.S. racism in recent weeks that “Thanksgiving Poem” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906), America’s first great Black poet, seems miraculous. Dunbar, son of two former slaves and himself a victim of racial prejudice, nevertheless writes a poem of gratitude.
As an aside, I note that Dunbar’s final novel, The Sport of the Gods, deals with a situation that appears to be far more common that many realize: a man is found guilty of a theft he didn’t commit, spends time in prison, and only gains his freedom thanks to the man who framed him recanting on his deathbed. As I write this, we can lift up thanks that the wrongfully convicted Kevin Strickland has finally been released from a Missouri prison after spending 42 years behind bars, and that two of the men accused of killing Malcolm X have also been exonerated. While we’re at it, let’s offer up thanks that Oklahoma’s Julius Jones was taken off death row. Doubts about whether Jones was in fact guilty prompted Oklahoma’s governor to make the move, although the governor is still trying to make sure that Jones will spend the rest of his life behind bars, we’ll take our blessings where we can find them.
Yet despite living in a society where African Americans are treated unjustly, Dunbar focuses on the gifts he has received. It’s a reminder that, however grim the times, we can find things to be thankful for.
A Thanksgiving Poem
By Paul Laurence Dunbar
The sun hath shed its kindly light,
Our harvesting is gladly o’er
Our fields have felt no killing blight,
Our bins are filled with goodly store.From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword
We have been spared by thy decree,
And now with humble hearts, O Lord,
We come to pay our thanks to thee.We feel that had our merits been
The measure of thy gifts to us,
We erring children, born of sin,
Might not now be rejoicing thus.No deed of our hath brought us grace;
When thou were nigh our sight was dull,
We hid in trembling from thy face,
But thou, O God, wert merciful.Thy mighty hand o’er all the land
Hath still been open to bestow
Those blessings which our wants demand
From heaven, whence all blessings flow.Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,
Looked down on us with holy care,
And from thy storehouse in the sky
Hast scattered plenty everywhere.Then lift we up our songs of praise
To thee, O Father, good and kind;
To thee we consecrate our days;
Be thine the temple of each mind.With incense sweet our thanks ascend;
Before thy works our powers pall;
Though we should strive years without end,
We could not thank thee for them all.
