His pulpit's a corner on 19th and Main.

His grip on the gospel his one claim to fame.

He hurls fire and brimstone at the cars passing by

And he offers salvation for the savior on high.

His khakis are tattered and he ain't bathed in weeks.

His bout with the bottle shows up on his cheeks.

He looks like a scarecrow, a sight to behold

As he works for the shepherd, bringing lambs to the fold.

He points to the Bible he holds in his hands

Says I'm proof that the good Lord can save any man.



Son it ain't what you're driving or the clothes that you wear

Material possessions won't matter up there.

And someday in heaven when the angels all sing

These rags that I'm wearing will be fit for a king.



He's fighting a fever in spite of the chill.

He pulls up his collar and he speaks of God's will.

His body is weakened but his faith is still strong

For he's filled with conviction for the mission he's on.

He knows soon in heaven he'll be homeless no more

As his work will soon echo from that far distant shore.



Son it ain't what you're driving or the clothes that you wear

Material possessions won't matter up there.

And someday in heaven when the angels all sing

These rags that I'm wearing will be fit for a king.



Someday in heaven when the angels all sing

These rags that I'm wearing will be fit for a king.