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The Abolitionist Hymn We ask not that the slave should lie, As lies his master, at his ease, Beneath a silken canopy, Or in the shade of blooming trees. We ask not "eye for eye," that all Who forge the chain and ply the whip Should feel their torture, while the thrall Should wield the scourge of mastership. We mourn not that the man should toil. 'Tis nature's need. 'Tis God's decree. But let the hand that tills the soil Be, like the wind that fans it, free. Tune, "Old Hundred."