Now my skyearts is clar, caze I done 'liver de message. I
done tol' yer whar hit come fum. I tol' yer 'twas in de Book, 'boutn
middle-ways twix' een an' een; an' wedder David writ it or Sam'l writ
it, or Gen'sis writ it or Paul writ it, or Phesians writ it or Loshuns
writ it, dat ain't nudder hyear nor dar; dat don't make no diffunce;
some on 'em writ it, caze hit's sholy in de Book, fur de oberseer's
wife she read hit ter me outn dar; an' I tuck 'tickler notice, too,
so's I could tell yer right whar ter fin' it. An', bredren, I'm er
tellin' yer de truf dis ebenin'; hit's jes 'bout de middle twix' een
an' een. Hit's dar, sho's yer born, an' dar aint no way fur ter
'sputin' it, nor ter git roun' it, 'septin' fur ter tu'n fum yer
wickedness. An' now, Brudder Gabe, raise er chune; an' sing hit
lively, bredren; an' wile dey's singin' hit, I want yer ter come up
hyear an' fill deze monahs' benches plum full. Bredren, I want monahs
'pun top er monahs dis ebenin'. Brethren I want 'em in crowds. I want
'em in droves. I want 'em laid 'pun top er one ernudder, bredren, tell
yer can't see de bottumus' monahs. I want 'em piled up hyear dis
ebenin'. I want 'em packed down, mun, an' den tromped on, ter make
room fur de nex' load. Oh, my bredren, come! fur 'dey young men shall
die by de s'ord, an' dey sons an' dey daughters by de famine.
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