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With golden soil bringing forth grace,
And streams quenching thirsts of slavery,
We lay black and mighty,
Black in flesh, yet pure at heart.
A land promised of us by our ancestors,
It approaches speedily along with the chosen one.
Who with him is a sword and a weighing balance,
His face shines with hope and his heart with justice.
With the ebony blood of our ancestor’s promise,
The healing balm shall flow as the great streams.
And the hope of our people shall be displayed bright,
Brighter than the sun of the lands and oceans.
Though it be degraded now among it fellows,
It shall spring fort out of the soil in due time.
We shall merry because we have hope,
And believe in the days ahead.
On his stallion with a trumpet shall the chosen one declare,
Liberty and grace, and truth, and life, and joy,
Everlasting to the inhabitants of the golden land,
And to those with the blood of the chosen one.
We shall blossom with our ancestor moving back,
Back to lay to rest everlasting in their beds,
Their children are now liberated,
And the battle is over.
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