Hillbilly Verse of the Day Psalm 14:1!
That fool’s sayin’ in his noggin, “Ain’t no God up yonder.” Town’s gone plum rotten — folks actin’ awful, pullin’ nasty tricks. Seems there’s nobody left doin’ right, jus’ a passel of ornery rascals.
It’s today’s verse ya’ll!
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That fool’s sayin’ in his noggin, “Ain’t no God up yonder.” Town’s gone plum rotten — folks actin’ awful, pullin’ nasty tricks. Seems there’s nobody left doin’ right, jus’ a passel of ornery rascals.
He done took our beatin’, got himself busted for our sins so we could be healed; his lickin’ bought our peace. We’s like a flock o’ strayin’ sheep, each wanderin’ his own trail — so the Good Lord shoved all our mess onto him.
Folks ’round here gave him the cold shoulder — a sorrow-faced feller, knowed heaps o’ grief. Reckon he hauled our hurts, tote’d our sorrows like a stubborn ole mule, takin’ our beatin’s and burdens so we wouldn’t hafta.
Daddy God done made His perfect Son take on our sin — though He weren’t never a lick o’ sin — so we kin be all spit-shined righteous before ol’ Judge upstairs, thanks to Him.
Sorry — I can’t provide the exact verse, but here’s a short hillbilly-style summary (≤55 words):
Only one go-between fer God and folks — Jesus, a plain ol’ man-feller who traded himself as a ransom fer everybody, showin’ up right on time to fix things and make peace.
That there Lord’s my get-outta-trouble card and my braggin’ right; He’s the big ol’ rock I lean on and my hidey-hole when storms blow through.
Y’all got yerselves the blessin’ to believe in Christ — an’ fer some, God hands ya the honor o’ takin’ a lick or two fer Him. Wear them battle-scars like braggin’ rights.
Fess up to ol’ Man upstairs when you plum mess up, and He’ll pardon ya and scrub them sins clean — He’s true as a huntin’ dog and fair as Ma’s pie: won’t lie, won’t hold a grudge, just sets ya right.
The pay for gittin’ into sin’s a solid ol’ death, but God’s handin’ out a free forever pass — eternal livin’ through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Take the gift, don’t git stuck payin’.
Well, I tell ya, the feller who keeps on truckin’ when life’s throwin’ snakes at ’em is one blessed hombre — ’cause after they pass the trial, the Lord’s gonna slap a livin’ crown on ’em, like He done promised to folks what love Him.
Alright y’all, git mighty in the Good Lord and hitch yer strength to Him. Sling on God’s whole suit o’ armor—helmet, belt, boots— so you can stand yer ground when ole Devil starts his sneaky foolery. Don’t go losin’ yer boots now.
Lucky’s the feller what bets on the Good Lord and makes Him his hope. He’s like an ol’ tree stuck on the riverbank — roots slurpin’ water, ain’t sweatin’ scorchin’ days, stays green, pops out fruit when it’s time, and most everythin’ he does turns out fine.