|
His pulpit's a corner |
|
On 19th and Main |
|
His grip on the gospel |
|
His one claim to fame |
|
He hurls fire and brimstone |
|
At the cars passing by |
|
And he offers salvation |
|
For the savior on high |
|
His khakis are tattered |
|
And he ain't bathed in weeks |
|
His bout with the bottle |
|
Shows up on his cheeks |
|
He looks like a scarecrow |
|
A sight to behold |
|
As he works for the shepherd |
|
Bringin' lambs to the fold |
|
He points to the Bible |
|
He holds in his hands |
|
Says I'm proof that the good Lord |
|
Can save every man |
|
Son, it ain't what you're driving |
|
Or the clothes that you wear |
|
Material possessions |
|
Won't matter up there |
|
And someday in heaven |
|
When the angels all sing |
|
These rags that I'm wearin' |
|
Will be fit for a king |
|
He's fighting a fever |
|
In spite of the chill |
|
He pulls up his collar |
|
And he speaks of God's will |
|
His body is weakened |
|
But his faith is still strong |
|
For he's filled with conviction |
|
For the mission he's on |
|
He knows soon in heaven |
|
He'll be homeless no more |
|
As his work will soon echo |
|
>From that far distant shore |
|
Son, it ain't what you're driving |
|
Or the clothes that you wear |
|
Material possessions |
|
Won't matter up there |
|
And someday in heaven |
|
When the angels all sing |
|
These rags that I'm wearin' |
|
Will be fit for a king |
