Death becomes beautiful in the morning
And I stand with this rose in prayer,
Let the rivers flow in Harlem
Where my heart\'s prayer lies;
And the wickedness of sorrow
Dies hard in the wilderness
And mourning has no winter
For mourning is mourning,
At last the rivers flow upon faces,
Faces I\'ve never seen!
And the dichotomy of this manner
Rises up to the top...
I never want for this to be hard
I beg for your intentions to be fair,
And rivers flow on the street
Let the people drown in their bliss.