My Daddy

He works with wood and stone

To feed his hungry kids; I preach because I love it

He so often says.

A simple country preacher man:

Street preacher some say.

Some even call him crazy,

I think a loving kind of way.

He wouldn’t harm a butterfly:

But fight a circle saw.

Gentleman of course, scholar no

But always true to word.

Atlanta to Bryson City

Knoxville to Madisonville;

Our voices rise and mingle,

I’ll Fly Away Oh Glory!

With his family he travels;

From city to country town,

He don’t preach for money

But for the Promised Land:

A sight to behold

This preacher and gloried crew

Wife, unceasing child in arms;

Seven the youngest me:

City people gaping at,

The little girl in a tattered coat

The little blond boy plays his banjo

Mama whispers under breath

Winter nights I hear him

While I am warm and snug in bed

He’s hunkered down behind the woodstove

Wrapped up in Mama’s quilt

Strong voice from heart interceding

For the lost and lonely souls

For this preacher is a Warrior

With a Breast Plate made of Gold

His hair now not silver

His back not slightly bent

For he’s preaching to God’s Angels

I know where Daddy’s at

9/9/99

His Daughter