Hill and fields people, these,
Gathering in their Sunday best
At a chapel in the valley'd hills
To sing God's praises acapella:
Women, cap'd  and apron'd,
Suspendered men in beards,
Children flushed from playing tag
Beneath the shade of dry land trees.

Paper fans wave off the heat;
Down runs the trickled sweat.
Melodious voices keep a beat,
To rhythms time cannot forget.

Gray and cracked old concrete floor,
Crude old splintering stage,
Modern luxury we need no more
To praise the God of Ages.

Four-part harmony
Sung sweet and clear
Fills the chest,
Swells the air,
Relieves the soul
Of earthly care.

These men,
These women,
Raise the paean
Of humbled hearts,
Of thriving souls,
To heaven.