THE FUNERAL

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THE FUNERAL

I was walking in Savannah past a church,
decayed and dim. When slowly through the
window came a plaintive funeral hymn. And
my sympathy awakened and a wonder quickly
grew. 'Til I found myself envired in a
little Negro pew.

Out front a colored couple sat in sorrow,
nearly wild. On the altar was a casket and
in the casket was a child. I could picture
him while livin', curly hair, protuding lips
I'd seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried
southern trips.

Rose a sad, old colored preacher from his
little wooden desk With a manner sorta
awkward, and countenance grotesque. The
simplicity and shrewdness in his Ethiopian
face showed the wisdom and ignorance of a
crushed, undying race.

And he said, "Now don't be weepin' for this
pretty bit of clay. For the little boy who
lived there has done gone and run away
He is doin' very finely and he appreciates
your love, but his shore 'nuff Father wanted
him in the big house up above.

The Lord didn't give you that baby, by no
hundred thousand miles. He just thought you
need some sunshine, and He lent it for awhile
And He let you keep and love it 'til your
hearts were bigger grown. And these
silver tears you're sheddin' now is just
interest on the loan.

Just think, my poor dear mourners, creepin'
'long on sorrows life's way. What a blessed
picnic this here baby got today. Your good
fathers and good mothers crowd the little
fellow 'round in the Angel's tender garden of
the big plantation ground.

And his eyes they brightly sparkle at the
pretty things he viewed. But a tear came,
and he whispered, 'I want my parents , too.
But then the Angel's chief musicians teach
that little boy a song. Says if only they be
faithful they'll soon be comin' 'long.

So, my poor detached mourners, let your hearts
with Jesus rest. And don't go to criticizin' the
One what knows the best. He has give us many
comforts, He's got the right to take away. To
the Lord be praised in glory, forever, let us pray."

THE FUNERAL
Recorded by Hank Williams, Sr.
Also recorded by Red Foley
Writer: Fred Rose