King was a preacher, and a good one, Jasper knew immediately. His diction was crisp, his voice a vibrant baritone. He had the power to move the crowd’s emotions, a valuable skill that Jasper admired.

However, King had probably never before preached to so many people. Few men had.

He cautioned that the demonstration, triumphant though it was, meant nothing if it did not lead to real change. “Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam, and will now be content, will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.” The audience cheered and whooped at every resonant phrase. “There will be neither rest nor tranquillity in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights,” King warned. “The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.”

As he drew near to the end of his seven minutes, King became more biblical. “We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood, and robbed of their dignity, by signs stating ‘For Whites Only,’” he said. “We will not be satisfied until justice runs down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

On the platform behind him, the gospel singer Mahalia Jackson cried: “My Lord! My Lord!”

“Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream,” he said.

Jasper sensed that King had thrown away his prepared speech, for he was no longer manipulating his audience emotionally. Instead, he seemed to be drawing his words from a deep, cold well of suffering and pain, a well created by centuries of cruelty. Jasper realized that Negroes described their suffering in the words of the Old Testament prophets, and bore their pain with the consolation of Jesus’s gospel of hope.

King’s voice shook with emotion as he said: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’

“I have a dream that one day, on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood—I have a dream.

“That one day even the state of Mississippi—a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression—will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream.”

He had hit a rhythm, and two hundred thousand people felt it sway their souls. It was more than a speech: it was a poem and a canticle and a prayer as deep as the grave. The heartbreaking phrase “I have a dream” came like an amen at the end of each ringing sentence.

“That my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character—I have a dream today.