Charles Cowling

 

Hush little baby, don’t you cry 
You know your mama was born to die 
All my trials, Lord, soon be over 

The river of Jordan is muddy and cold
Well it chills the body but not the soul
All my trials, Lord, soon be over 

I’ve got a little book with pages three 
And every page spells liberty 
All my trials, Lord, soon be over 

Too late, my brothers 
Too late, but never mind 
All my trials, Lord, soon be over

If living were a thing that money could buy
Then the rich would live and the poor would die
All my trials, Lord, soon be over

There grows a tree in Paradise
And the pilgrims call it the Tree of Life 
All my trials, Lord, soon be over 

Too late, my brothers 
Too late, but never mind 
All my trials, Lord, soon be over
All my trials, Lord, soon be over

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*



You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>