God's A-Working, Man Songtext
Captives cry freedom
From a crucifix of sheds
The state calls Corrections
Between Lock 17 and Toadvine
Where the bank and the landlords
Stole my great-granddaddy's days
Where the Lord taught him to read
Scripture by the coal-oil light
Joy Harjo reads between the
From a crucifix of sheds
The state calls Corrections
Between Lock 17 and Toadvine
Where the bank and the landlords
Stole my great-granddaddy's days
Where the Lord taught him to read
Scripture by the coal-oil light
Joy Harjo reads between the
Tobesofkee and her folks’ mounds
Elders call through death:
An eagle, a song, her mama’s old biscuit pan
A boy murmurs in the mic
Has a briar patch saved her life?
Like, when his mama got strung out
His grandparents took him by his little shaking hands
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding storiеs
A sanctified, beaten-down land
Thе longer I’ve been living
Seems like the less I understand
Every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that He came down here
To get to working, man
Sweet sad old Gulf
Saltwater licking at my wounds I drank deep of my failure
Heard my mama curse the day I was born
The sun pierced my lids
Great-Granddaddy touched this water
The only time he left Alabama
Mimi and Granddaddy singing and waving from the shore
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
Seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that They came down here
To get to working, man
I searched Talladega's ruined mills
For the spirit of the strike
Its soft hills for the Red Stick warsongs
Amistad blazed on the Ritz Theater marquee
Dark air, college kids, town elders
Blue light, flashing blades, broken chains
Sengpe calls to the ancestors through
The ancient speakers and the dim screen
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that They came down here
To get to working, man
In the coal-dusted holler
Of her barefoot starvation youth
Some church-shadowed stones
Cried out my Grandmama's name
A lady fixing flowers
Eyes flashing at me that we're kin
She weaves lives through the
Grave-rows, old-time falling like rain
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that She came down here
To get to working, man
I squatted at his feet
Did he preach to the Union, black and white
Before they shut down the
Jasper streets or the Corona mine?
Clouds spread across the land
Led me down to the Lock 17 Dam
The Black Warrior sang its song
An eagle opened up like a blackbound book in the sky
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that You came down here
To get to working, man
Did they tell you
He could frame out a house?
Did they tell you
He could clean a mess of fish?
Did they tell you
He had love for the working girls?
Did they tell you
He told the rich man to go and cut a switch?
Elders call through death:
An eagle, a song, her mama’s old biscuit pan
A boy murmurs in the mic
Has a briar patch saved her life?
Like, when his mama got strung out
His grandparents took him by his little shaking hands
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding storiеs
A sanctified, beaten-down land
Thе longer I’ve been living
Seems like the less I understand
Every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that He came down here
To get to working, man
Sweet sad old Gulf
Saltwater licking at my wounds I drank deep of my failure
Heard my mama curse the day I was born
The sun pierced my lids
Great-Granddaddy touched this water
The only time he left Alabama
Mimi and Granddaddy singing and waving from the shore
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
Seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that They came down here
To get to working, man
I searched Talladega's ruined mills
For the spirit of the strike
Its soft hills for the Red Stick warsongs
Amistad blazed on the Ritz Theater marquee
Dark air, college kids, town elders
Blue light, flashing blades, broken chains
Sengpe calls to the ancestors through
The ancient speakers and the dim screen
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that They came down here
To get to working, man
In the coal-dusted holler
Of her barefoot starvation youth
Some church-shadowed stones
Cried out my Grandmama's name
A lady fixing flowers
Eyes flashing at me that we're kin
She weaves lives through the
Grave-rows, old-time falling like rain
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that She came down here
To get to working, man
I squatted at his feet
Did he preach to the Union, black and white
Before they shut down the
Jasper streets or the Corona mine?
Clouds spread across the land
Led me down to the Lock 17 Dam
The Black Warrior sang its song
An eagle opened up like a blackbound book in the sky
Old broken things to fix
A riled-up, wild-eyed band
Piles of winding stories
A sanctified, beaten-down land
The longer I’ve been living
It seems like the less I understand
But every morning I hit my knees
And thank God my God’s a-working, man
I thank God that You came down here
To get to working, man
Did they tell you
He could frame out a house?
Did they tell you
He could clean a mess of fish?
Did they tell you
He had love for the working girls?
Did they tell you
He told the rich man to go and cut a switch?
