ThomasRedheart

<p><strong>Good For The Soul</strong></p><p><strong>Lyrics By: Thomas W. Peterson AKA RedHeart&nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>&nbsp;©COPYRIGHT 2–13-25 All Rights Reserved ©</strong></p><p><br></p><p><strong>Verse 1&nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Mama's Bible sat where the oil lamp glowed, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Dog-eared Psalms in a flour-sack code. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>"Son, don't just read it - let them pages breathe," &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>She'd light two candles when the frostbit would seethe. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>"God ain't just steeple-high," she'd smile and unfold, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>"He's the hand in your overalls when the tractor won't hold, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>The 'thank you' for rain when the creekbed's been mean— &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>That Book's not for showin', it's for dirt between your seams." &nbsp;</strong></p><p><br></p><p><strong>Chorus&nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>It's cornbread kindness, coffee can truth, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Share your bread even when yours ain't chewed through. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Hold doors and hearts with the same worn hands, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Plant mercy's seeds where the rocky land stands. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Might not fill your pockets, but it fills the hole— &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>This old-time gospel's still good for the soul. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><br></p><p><strong>Verse 2</strong></p><p><strong>Pa plowed straight rows when the fields went wrong, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Sweat-stained hat brim singing life's hard song. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>"Boy, God's not some sheriff keeping sinning logs— &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>He's the why we help neighbors when their fields get clogged. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Don't waste breath judging what the wheat can't see, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Just work your prayers into every seed." &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Now his overalls hang empty by the barn door hinge, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>But his words still walk every planted ridge. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><br></p><p><strong>Bridge&nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>They taught me Sunday lives Monday through Saturday nights, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>That faith's just love dressed in workboots and fight. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>The "Amens" come easy when the crops stand tall, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>But real grace grows when drought claims all. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><br></p><p><strong>Outro</strong></p><p><strong>So I grease that Bible's spine with tractor grease and doubt, &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Plant Mama's verses where the locusts bout. &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>Pa's voice still rumbles when the thunder rolls— &nbsp;</strong></p><p><strong>"Keep your rows straight, boy, and tend what's good for the soul."&nbsp;</strong></p><p><br></p><p><br></p>