Slip of foot and tilt of rock,
Break of sweat and pound of blood.
Hear our voices raised in dread,
For the beast will soon be fed.
Wipe the canvas,
Color bold and do not faint,
The road will tumble on.
Wield the brush and twist the hand,
Till our freedom’s bought again.
Call the horn,
Set a pace.
The hue is running onward.