James Weldon Johnson

James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938) is perhaps best known for his novel, The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, which was published in 1912. The novel was an important transitional peace between pre-Renaissance African-American literature and the literature of the Renaissance. The novel was the story of a light-skinned African-American man who tried to live first as a black and then as a white The novel was significant in that it formed the basis for the questions which permeated the Harlem Renaissance. The issue was no longer how to deal with racial prejudice but how to achieve racial identity. The task for the African-American writer was no longer to expose racial tensions but to describe everyday African-American life and culture. The novel was republished during the height of the Harlem Renaissance, capturing the mood of the movement.

Johnson is less well-known for his poetry, yet his poetry was the genre he preferred the most. Johnson was often criticized by other African-American authors for using dialect. Most of Johnson's poetry is recognizable for its religious tone, reflective of the spirituals of African-American slave culture. "Go Down Death" captures the spiirt of Johnson's religious writing.

Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband - weep no more;
Grief-stricken son - weep no more;
Left-lonesome loved ones - weep no more;
She's only just gone Home.

Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from his great, high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell on Sister Karen Ann,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.

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 hoofs of his horse 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 Augusta, Georgia,
And find Sister Karen Ann.
She's borne the burden and the heat of the day,
She's labored in my vineyard,
And she's tired - She's weary
Go down, Death, and bring her 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,
And the foam from his horse was like a comet in the sky;
On Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
Straight on down he came.

While she was alone, feverish in her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death.
She saw Old Death coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Karen Ann;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to herself:
"I'm going home,"
And she smiled and closed her eyes.

And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she 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 Sister Karen Ann
On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying:
"Take your rest,
Take your rest,
Take your rest."

Weep not - weep not,
She's not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.