Birmingham Sunday - Rhiannon Giddens

Come round by my side and I’ll sing you a song.

I’ll sing it so softly, it’ll do no one wrong.

On Birmingham Sunday the blood ran like wine,

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

That cold autumn morning no eyes saw the sun,

And Addie Mae Collins, her number was one.

At an old Baptist church there was no need to run.

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom,

The clouds they were grey and the autumn winds blew,

And Denise McNair brought the number to two.

The falcon of death was a creature they knew,

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom,

The church it was crowded, but no one could see

That Cynthia Wesley’s dark number was three.

Her prayers and her feelings would shame you and me.

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

Young Carol Robertson entered the door

And the number her killers had given was four.

She asked for a blessing but asked for no more,

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

On Birmingham Sunday a noise shook the ground.

And people all over the earth turned around.

For no one recalled a more cowardly sound.

And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

The men in the forest they once asked of me,

How many black berries grew in the Blue Sea.

And I asked them right back with a tear in my eye.

How many dark ships in the forest?

The Sunday has come and the Sunday has gone.

And I can’t do much more than to sing you a song.

I’ll sing it so softly, it’ll do no one wrong.

And the choirs keep singing of Freedom.