Here's the version by Hank Williams, Sr. THE FUNERAL - Recorded by Hank Williams, Sr. - Written by Fred Rose I was walkin' in Savannah past a church decayed an' dim, When slowly th'ough the window came a plaintive fun'ral hymn, An' my sympathy awakened, an' a wonder quickly grew 'Til I found myself envired in a little colored pew. Out front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild. On the altar was a casket, an' in the casket was a child. I could pi'ture him while livin', curly hair, protruding lips. I'd seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried southern trips. Rose a sad old colored preacher from his little wooden desk, With a manner sorta awkward, an' countenance grotesque. The simplicity an' shrewdness in his Ethiopian face Showed the wisdom an' ignor'nce of a crushed, undyin' race. An' he said, "Now don't be weepin' for this pretty bit of clay, For the little boy who lived there is done gone an' run away. He was doin' very finely, an' he 'preciates your love, But his sho'-'nuff Father wanted him in the big house up above. "The Lord didn't give you that baby, by no hundred thousand miles. He just think you need some sunshine, an' He lent it for awhile, An' He let you keep an' love it 'til your hearts was bigger grown, An' these silver tears you're sheddin' now is just int'res' on the loan. "Just think, my poor dear mou'ners, creepin' 'long on sorrow's way, What a blessed picnic this here baby got today. Your good fathers an' good mothers crowd the little feller 'round In the angels' tender garden of the big plantation ground. "An' his eyes they brightly sparkle at the pretty things he view, But a tear came, an' he whisper, 'I want my parents, too.' But then the angels' chief musician teach that little boy a song, Says, if only they be faithful they'll soon be comin' 'long. "So, my poor detached mourners, let your hearts with Jesus rest, An' don't go to criticizin' the One what knows the best. He have give us many comforts He's got the right to take away. To the Lord be praised in glory, forever. Let us pray."
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