A true story concerning the little boy who was whipped to death for going to Sunday school.
Some years ago, on foreign shores
Where feathery palm trees wave,
Beneath whose shade at close of day
Reclines the weary slave,
Among the negroes, Christian men
Had read God’s precious Word,
And dusky faces beamed with joy
As they God’s message heard.
God’s Word was blessed—though Satan tried
To make their labors cease;
But all in vain, for hearts were found
Rejoicing in His peace.
From field to field, from hut to hut,
The gospel message rung,
And God’s great love in giving Christ
Was heard on many a tongue.
When work was o’er, the dusky throng
From mid the sugar canes
Would all unite in happy song,
And sing their cheerful strains.
And families were thus made glad,
And hearts were filled with joy;
The tott’ring negro bent with age,
And many a girl and boy.
As weekly came the blest Lord’s day,
The negroes had a rule
Of meeting in a shanty rude,
For preaching and for school.
Among the rest, a bright-eyed lad
Was often seen at school,
While plodding o’er God’s precious Word
Upon a rude-made stool.
Poor little Sambo loved the Lord,
And sought Him much in prayer;
His message heard, he read the Word,
And kept its truths with care.
He seemed so blest on days of rest
When he could get away,
To be amongst the happy throng,
Who loved to sing and pray;
But Sambo’s master oftentimes
Forbade the boy to go
To listen to the teacher’s words,
Which filled his heart with joy.
His master was a cruel man,
Who oft his men would strip,
And beat them with a strong bamboo,
Or his most powerful whip.
Another truth young Sambo learned,
As well as sing and pray—
To love his parents and his friends,
His master to obey.
It cost poor Sambo many tears,
He sorrowed night and day,
When he was told he must not go
To hear them preach or pray.
‘Twas at the school he learned to read,
And learned his Lord to love;
And there his little heart was set
On better things above.
He loved his school, and now and then
From home he fain would slip,
But that he feared some wicked men,
And feared his master’s whip.
At last he could no more forbear,
In spite of dreaded rod;
How could he stay and disobey
His loving Lord and God?