My Hands Keep Working

Last fall I visited the National Museum of African American History. I went back again in July. It’s an amazing museum, one of my favorites. So dense with artifacts and stories, and powerful emotion. It’s impossible to come to terms with even a small part of the stories of suffering, atrocity, and evil that slavery and our long history of discrimination have left in our country.

One woman’s story had the line that became the chorus. I was immediately captivated. Imagining a life from which there is no escape from the drudgery and pain. And, without in any way minimizing the horrors of enslaved people, I also got to thinking about how many of us divorce our bodies from our spirits, and just keep going. Mindless work, or other ways of living.

I’ve had time to work on songs these last couple of weeks. All these unrelated songs that have been lingering in me for several months. Here’s the latest

My Hands Keep Working

My hands keep working
Working, working, working.
My hands keep working all night and day.
My hands are working and
All the time they’re working
My spirit is flying away.

Sun so hot in the cotton fields
With the rows we till
The bales we fill
The blood we spill
To the whip and lash.
All the time I’m prayin’
There will come a day when
It all goes to smoke and ash.

Flying away. Flying away. Flying away.

Brought in chains from the mother land
Stripped of pride
Torn and tied
Some of us died leaping into the sea.
There’s no denyin’
Sometimes dyin’
Is the only thing can set you free.

You can cut a line between your body and mind.
Leave the scar
from who you are
Get so far from what you feel.
No place for you in
What you’re doin
Tell me what is real?

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