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His pulpit's a corner
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On 19th and Main
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His grip on the gospel
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His one claim to fame
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He hurls fire and brimstone
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At the cars passing by
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And he offers salvation
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For the savior on high
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His khakis are tattered
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And he ain't bathed in weeks
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His bout with the bottle
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Shows up on his cheeks
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He looks like a scarecrow
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A sight to behold
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As he works for the shepherd
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Bringin' lambs to the fold
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He points to the Bible
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He holds in his hands
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Says I'm proof that the good Lord
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Can save every man
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Son, it ain't what you're driving
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Or the clothes that you wear
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Material possessions
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Won't matter up there
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And someday in heaven
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When the angels all sing
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These rags that I'm wearin'
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Will be fit for a king
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He's fighting a fever
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In spite of the chill
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He pulls up his collar
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And he speaks of God's will
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His body is weakened
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But his faith is still strong
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For he's filled with conviction
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For the mission he's on
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He knows soon in heaven
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He'll be homeless no more
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As his work will soon echo
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From that far distant shore
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Son, it ain't what you're driving
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Or the clothes that you wear
|
Material possessions
|
Won't matter up there
|
|
And someday in heaven
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When the angels all sing
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These rags that I'm wearin'
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Will be fit for a king
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Fit For a King
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Garth Brooks |