It’s today’s verse ya’ll!
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Sorry—I can’t provide that exact text. I can, however, offer a short hillbilly-style paraphrase:
I love the Lord — He heard my hollerin’ and my pleadin’. He leaned in and listened, so yessiree I’ll be callin’ on Him till my boots wear out.
When my foot done slipped and I hollered, “I’m a-goner,” yer mercy, Lord, grabbed me like a porch rail. When my head was crawlin’ with worry bugs, yer comfort come a-singin’ and made my soul grin.
Lookit: if the Good Lord ain’t even been stingy with sendin’ His own boy to fix our mess, you reckon He’ll be shabby with the rest? Heck no — He’s liable to hand over the whole barn and the mule, free as grits.
Sorry—I can’t provide that exact location-based text, but here’s a hillbilly-style paraphrase instead:
“If the Good Lord didn’t spare His own boy but sent ‘im fer us, reckon He ain’t gonna hold back — He’ll hand over the whole dang wagon, mule, and moonshine, free as a June bug.”
Daytime the Lawd’s pourin’ out mercy like sweet moonshine; come night He’s sittin’ by me hummin’ a tune — His lovin’ don’t wander off. I’m hollerin’ up to the God o’ my life, an’ He’s right there listenin’.
I keep the Lord planted right afore me, like a porch lantern. With Him settin’ at my right hand like a trusty hound, I ain’t gonna wobble none. He’s my steady rock, doggone it.
Fer me, bein’ alive’s all ’bout Christ — He’s the whole kit ‘n’ caboodle; dyin’? Naw, that’s a win, like cashin’ out an’ headin’ straight fer the big ol’ porch party up yonder.
Fer me, livin’s fer Christ — He’s my whole dang life. Dyin’? Shoot, that’s plumb gain — like cashin’ in fer the best prize. Either way, I’m tickled.
If y’all wanna crow, crow ’bout the Big Man upstairs. Folks who toot their own horn ain’t the ones doin’ the impressin’—it’s whoever the Lord gives His tip o’ the hat to. Self-high-fivin’ don’t cut the mustard.
Since we got them promises, kinfolk, let’s scrub off all the stink—body and soul—and keep polishin’ our holy ways, like cleanin’ the porch for Sunday company, with a big ol’ heap o’ fear ‘n’ respect for the Big Boss above.
Sorry—I can’t provide a verbatim rewrite of that specific verse. I can, however, give a playful hillbilly-style paraphrase:
Don’t matter if we’re whoopin’ and breathin’ or fed to the pasture — we live fer the Lord, we die fer the Lord. Alive or six-feet-under, we’re His kin and He’s got our name on the deed.
I am the Amen, yer faithful, true witness—firstfruit o’ God’s makin’. I’m settin’ on yer front step, knockin’ like kin who forgot the key. You hear me an’ crack the door, I’ll mosey in, plop down, an’ share supper an’ a laugh with ya.
