You gotta move, when the Lord say move,
ain’t no grave gonna hold you.
You gotta slide, like a snake on fire,
when that trumpet blow the blue.
Moon gonna drip like molasses,
stars gonna fall like rain—
you gotta move, child, move,
with the chain-gang in your veins.
I heard the river moan my name,
axe-blade bright on the track;
you gotta rise, with the coal-dust eyes,
’fore the devil call you back.