You may be high, you may be low,You may be rich, or poor as dirt,But there’s a wind that starts to blow,And a truth that’s bound to hurt.
This poem is inspired by the steady, hypnotic rhythm and the uncompromising spiritual message of Mississippi Fred McDowell’s "You Gotta Move." mississippi_fred_mcdowell_you_gotta_move
The bottleneck slides like a silver ghost,Pressing hard on the iron string,A hollow moan from the Delta coast,Where the spirit begins to sing. You may be high, you may be low,You
The clock don’t care for the crown you wear,Or the silver in your hand;When the Master calls through the heavy air,You’ll leave this weary land. So tune the wood and strike the chord,Let
So tune the wood and strike the chord,Let the slide-ring moan its prayer,For the road is long toward the Lord,And you’ve got to meet Him there.
No use in hiding, no use in flight,The shadow’s gonna find your door;It’s a lonesome walk in the dead of night,To the golden, distant shore.
