tol' 'em 'bout de Lord's leadin' uv 'em, an' now tell 'em 'boutn his
drivin' uv 'em. An', my bredren, includin' uv de sistren, I ain't gwine
ter spare yer feelin's dis day. I'm er stan'in' hyear fur ter 'liver de
message outn de Book, an' dis is de message:

"'Burhol', I'll punish um! dey young men shall die by de s'ord, an' dey
sons an' dey daughters by de famine.'

"Yer all hyear it, don't yer? An' now yer want ter know who sont it. De
Lord! Hit's true he sont it by a po' ole nigger, but den hit's his own
wuds; hit's in his Book. An', fussly, we'll pursidder dis: IS HE ABLE
TER DO IT? Is he able fur ter kill marster's niggers wid de s'ord an' de
famine? My bredren, he is able! Didn' he prize open de whale's mouf, an'
take Jonah right outn him? Didn' he hol' back de lions wen dey wuz er
rampin' an' er tearin' roun' atter Dan'l in de den? Wen de flood come,
an' all de yearth wuz drownded, didn' he paddle de ark till he landed
her on top de mount er rats? Yes, my bredren, embracin' uv de sistren,
an' de same Lord wat done all er dat, he's de man wat's got de s'ords
an' de famines ready fur dem wat feels deyse'f too smart ter 'bey de
teachin's uv de Book. 'Dey young men shall die by de s'ord, an' dey sons
an' dey daughters by de famine.'

"Oh, you chu'ch membahs wat shouts an' prays uv er Sundays an' steals
watermillions uv er week-days! Oh, you young men wat's er cussin' an' er
robbin' uv hen-rooses! Oh, you young women wat's er singin' uv reel
chunes! Oh, you chil'en wat's er sassin' uv ole folks! Oh, you ole
pussons wat's er fussin' an' quarlin'! Oh, you young folks wat's er
dancin' an' prancin'! Oh, you niggers wat's er slightin' uv yer wuck!
Oh! pay 'tenshun ter de message dis ebenin', caze yer gwine wake up some
er deze mornin's, an' dar at yer do's 'll be de s'ord an' de famine.