The Southern Pulpit Poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer

The Southern pulpit, in our eyes,
Descends to make a compromise
With evil things in heaven's name;
The kind that brings a blush of shame.

The evils to the Negro shown,
His rights that Southern men disown,
We view with sorrow and distress,
Its lack of effort to suppress.

Prevailing thought it cannot cross,
If so, it feels financial loss;
The gold to it is dearer far,
Than all the rights of Negroes are.

It preached that slavery was right,
Upon the Scripture based its fight,
Why should we now expect a change
So radical? Such would be strange.

This pulpit fails to higher climb
Than sentiment at any time.
Such grades of preaching cannot live,
The truth alone can freedom give.