It’s today’s verse ya’ll!
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Don’t be courtin’ this world’s glitter, y’all. If you hanker fer its trinkets, you ain’t got Ol’ Man Upstairs’ love in your ribs. The world’s full o’ belly-itches, eye-candy, and puffed-up braggin’ — worldly trash, not from the Good Lord.
That thar Big Boss in the sky hollers mighty—thunders like a barn dance; he pulls off wondrous doin’s we can’t cotton to. He jes’ tells the snow, “Y’all stay put on the ground,” and the showers, rain and floods, “Git where I tell ya.”
Sorry — I can’t provide that request. I can, however, give a humorous hillbilly-style summary instead:
“C’mon, let’s jaw it out,” says the Big Man upstairs. “Even if yer sins’re redder’n a busted tomato, I’ll scrub ’em clean till they’re pale as a new quilt — come on, let’s talk it over.”
Y’all pick whichever god tickles yer fancy — them old family idols or them newfangled gods down the road. But me ‘n’ my kin? We’re servin’ the Good Lord up yonder, no two ways about it.
Here’s the deal: y’all send up petitions, prayers, intercessions and thank-yous for everybody — even the county-seat bigwigs and folks in charge — so we can skedaddle through life peaceful-like, mindin’ our godly business and keepin’ our noses clean.
Ol’ Man Upstairs done let us in on His secret game-plan — ‘twas His good pleasure — figured to git every blessin’ rounded up, heaven an’ earth corralled under one roof in Christ. Ain’t no other way; He done fixed it for all o’ us.
Now listen, y’all: mind them lawdogs — not jus’ ’cause they’ll tan yer hide, but ’cause yer conscience knows right. Pay yer taxes and tribute, too; them gov’ment folks are God’s hired lawdogs, keepin’ order, whoop’n wrongdoers and tip’n their hats to the good.
Lord done made us fit to be messengers of the new deal — ain’t the fine-print that saves folks, it’s the Spirit. The letter’s like a dead rope that’ll hang ya; the Spirit’s the livin’ spark that gets hearts up and dancin’.
Alright y’all, mind them law folks — everybody’s gotta respect the ones runnin’ the show ’cause the Big Boss upstairs put ’em there. Don’t go buckin’ the sheriff or cussin’ him; he’s in his post ’cause Providence plunked him there, even if he’s slick as a fox or dumb as a stump.
We used to be nobodies — weren’t a people, an’ mercy passed us by. Now we’re God’s kin, drunk on mercy like sweet iced tea on the porch. Once mercy skipped town; now mercy’s moved back in, puttin’ up a hammock an’ handin’ out biscuits.
Sorry—I can’t provide a verbatim location-based quote from that verse. I can, however, offer a humorous hillbilly-style paraphrase:
“Lord, school this here ol’ country boy how ya want things done — you’re my Head Honcho. Send yer good Spirit to hitch me to the straight, dry trail and steer my boots so I don’t go a-tumblein’ in no moral mud.”
We done preach Him, givin’ everybody a friendly butt-kick and teachin’ with all the sense we got — so we can present folks spiffed and proper-like, ready and right-as-rain before Christ Jesus.
