When I get to Heav-en goin’ to put on my shoes.
Goin’ to walk all over God’s Heav’n.
Heav’n, Heav’n,
Ev-’ry bod-y talk-in’ ’bout heav’n ain’t go-in’ there;
Heav’n, Heav’n,
Goin’ to shout all over God’s Heav’n.
The longing of a footsore, ragged, driven race expressed in the tragically childlike terms of shoes, white robes, wings, and the wise and simple insight into hypocrisy: “Ev’rybody talkin ’bout Heav’n ain’t goin’ there. . . .”
“Now which one?” His fingers still picking the strings, ready at a word to slip into the opening chords of the next song.
“Go Down, Moses.”
She liked this one—at once the most majestic and supplicating of all the Negro folk songs—because it always made her cry a little. Sometimes Queenie, busy at the stove or the kitchen table, joined in with her high rich camp-meeting voice. Jo’s voice was a reedy tenor, but soft and husky with the indescribable Negro vocal quality. Magnolia soon knew the tune and the words of every song in Jo’s repertoire. Unconsciously, being an excellent mimic, she sang as Jo and Queenie sang, her head thrown slightly back, her eyes rolling or half closed, one foot beating rhythmic time to the music’s cadence. Her voice was true, though mediocre; but she got into this the hoarsely sweet Negro overtone—purple velvet muffling a flute.