Thank you for dedicating this song to him.

Tracy July

A POEM

Go Down, Death

Weep not, weep not,

He is not dead;

He’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Heart-broken mother–weep no more;

Grief-stricken friends–weep no more;

Left-lonesome fans –weep no more;

He’s only just gone home.

And God sat back on his throne,

And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand:

Call me Death!

And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice

That broke like a clap of thunder:

Call Death!–Call Death!

And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven

Till it reached away back to that shadowy place,

Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons,

And he leaped on his fastest horse,

Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.

Up the golden street Death galloped,

And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,

But they didn’t make no sound.

Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,

And waited for God’s command.

And God said: Go down, Death, go down,

Go down to Portmore, Jamaica,

Down in Saint Catherine,

And find Craig C.

He’s labored long in my vineyard,

And he’s tired–

He’s weary–

Go down, Death, and bring him to me.

And Death didn’t say a word,

But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,

And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,

And out and down he rode,

Through heaven’s pearly gates,

Past suns and moons and stars;

On Death rode,

Leaving the lightning’s flash behind;

Straight down he came.

While we were watching round his bed,

He turned his eyes and looked away,

He saw what we couldn’t see;

He saw Old Death. He saw Old Death

Coming like a falling star.

But Death didn’t frighten Craig C;

He looked to him like a welcome friend.

And He whispered to us: I’m going home,

And He smiled and closed his eyes.

And Death took him up like a baby,

And he lay in his icy arms,

But he didn’t feel no chill.

And death began to ride again–

Up beyond the evening star,

Into the glittering light of glory,

On to the Great White Throne.

And there he laid Craig C

On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away his tears,

And he smoothed the furrows from his face,

And the angels sang a little song,

And Jesus rocked him in his arms,

And kept a-saying: Take your rest,

Take your rest.

Weep not–weep not,

He is not dead;

He’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Originally Written by: James Weldon Johnson

Reformatted by: Keisha Abrahams