If mankind ever went that far,
As to try a star to make,
What a disaster it would be,
What a task even to try and undertake.
Yet, every second a star is born,
And God calls each by name,
In God’s Universes so vast and and wide,
No two stars are ever the same.
And just as each star is so different,
So intricate in scope and design,
We’ll find a man-made star can’t compare —
To the stars in the Heaven’s we find.
Right now man is trying to decipher,
And discern the composition of a star,
One day, I predict he’ll try to make one,
If God allows him to get that far.
Man has tried his hand at snowflakes,
Which under a microscope appear gobby and crude,
But, to make a snowflake like the Heavenly Father,
Man hasn’t even a clue.
Yes, every "second" a star is created,
‘Tis God’s Handiwork on display,
But, when man makes a star, he’ll brag about,
What is "commonplace" for God every day!
Away from freeways,
programmed industrial parks
and neatly squared subdivisions,
lies the true South:
cotton, beans and pine forests
sugar cane and tobacco
rice fields and pecan orchards
short winters and gentle people.
Here, on the back roads,
where folks still say "Ma’am" and "Sir"
where we are proud of Sunday clothes,
used cars, new babies and old people,
lies the unique South,
the South that visitors miss
Hurrying to Mardi Gras, Opryland
Disney World and Astrodome.
Come back, Visitor,
travel the back roads.
Pole a pirogue down the bayou,
pull some goobers in Georgia,
dig for diamonds in Arkansas,
hear hounds on a coon hunt,
whittle on a stoop, play some bluegrass.
Hear the rhythm of the South;
learn the words of our song.