| His pulpit’s a corner on 19th and Main
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| His grip on the gospel, his one claim to fame
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| He hurls fire and brimstone at the cars passing by
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| While he offers salvation from the Savior on high
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| His khakis are tattered and he ain’t bathed in weeks
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| His bouts with the bottle show up on his cheeks
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| He looks like a scarecrow, a sight to behold
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| But he works for the Shepherd, bringing lambs to the fold
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| He points to the Bible he holds in his hands
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| Says I’m proof that the good Lord can save any man
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| Son, it ain’t what you’re driving or the clothes that you wear
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| Material possessions won’t matter up there
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| Someday in heaven with the angels I’ll sing
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| And these rags that I’m wearing will be fit for a king
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| He’s fighting a fever but in spite of the chill
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| He pulls up his collar and speaks of God’s will
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| His body is weakened but his faith is still strong
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| He’s filled with conviction for the mission he’s on
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| 'Cause a mansion is waiting, he’ll be homeless no more
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| And his words will soon echo from that far distant shore
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| Son, it ain’t what you’re driving or the clothes that you wear
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| Material possessions won’t matter up there
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| Someday in heaven with the angels I’ll sing
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| And these rags that I’m wearing will be fit for a king
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| Someday in heaven with the angels I’ll sing
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| And these rags that I’m wearing will be fit for a king |