Lee Bains + The Glory Fires - 'God's A-Working, Man'

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Lyrics:
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
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 briarpatch saved her life?
Like, when his mama got strung out, and his
grandparents took him by his little shaking hands.

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 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,
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.

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?