Victor Ernest Osong | + Follow Poet |
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The Color of Judgment

They say that God is clothed in white,
A throne of clouds, a robe of light.
The angels, too, in linen gleam,
Like snowflakes stepping through a dream.
The lamb is white, the dove is pale—
All heaven's cast in frost and veil.

And yet, beneath that sacred lore,
A darker thread runs through the floor.
They say the devil wears the night,
That hell was born devoid of light.
A place where blackness swallows grace—
No color, just a cursed space.

The child learns this before he speaks:
White is the saint, and black, the freak.
White is the wedding, white the veil,
While black adorns the mourner’s trail.
The bride walks pure through marble halls,
The widow weeps as darkness falls.

At school, the chalk is white and bold,
It draws the truth the teachers told.
The board is black, a canvas bare,
Where lessons stick like soot in air.
White writes the rules, black holds the mess—
A silent code we all confess.

Even the church, in sacred hush,
Reveals this bias in its brush.
When smoke ascends to name a pope,
White is the symbol wrapped in hope.
Black is the signal: Try again,
Not holy, not enough for men.

The holy books are bound in black,
Yet claim the way to lead us back.
And still, somehow, the cover stains
The wisdom that the Word contains.
Why must the truth be draped in gloom,
If God, they say, outshines the tomb?

"White lie" means kindness, soft deceit,
But “blackmail” comes with darker heat.
"White list" grants you welcome space,
While “blacklist” bars you from the race.
A “white knight” rides to save the day—
A “black sheep” always lost his way.

Even in death, the myth survives:
White robes for those who lived pure lives.
While black surrounds the grieving pews,
As if our loss is dark and bruised.
The dead wear black, the mourners too,
As if their souls turned darker hue.

But I have walked in black and fire,
And found a different kind of choir.
I've seen the stars in velvet skies,
And known the truth that daylight hides.
For in the dark, we see what’s real—
The parts that light refuses to feel.

My mother’s skin, a sacred shade,
Told stories white could not have made.
My father’s hands, both rough and sure,
Held strength the world would not endure.
And still they bowed to robes of white,
While knowing black had borne the fight.

So tell me why the colors lie,
Why black must beg beneath the sky.
If good is always wrapped in white,
Does black not bleed, not dream, not write?
If God made all, both shade and shine,
Why draw the line in skin and sign?

Why must the child with darkest face
Be told he’s running second place?
Why must her beauty be compared
To snow, as if that’s only fair?
Why must the preacher wear the gold,
While black must kneel outside the fold?

It’s not just cloth or ash or ink,
It’s in the way we speak and think.
It's in the justice we pretend,
The truths we twist, the rules we bend.
A world where white defines the grace,
And black must earn its rightful place.

But we are not your lesser tone,
Not shadows cast to walk alone.
We are the night that births the star,
The strength of wounds, the sacred scar.
We are the soil, the roots, the deep—
Not lost, not cursed, not meant to weep.

So write a new creation tale,
Where black is not the mark of fail.
Where dark is not where angels fall,
But where the Maker shaped us all.
Let smoke be black, and still divine—
Let darkness, too, be called a sign.

Let conclaves rise with balanced voice,
Let every shade be seen as choice.
Let popes come wrapped in any skin—
Let holiness be found within.
And when they ask what color saves,
Tell them: truth wears all the shades.

Copyright © Victor Ernest Osong | Year Posted 2025

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