In Search Of Daha's Grave

 
In Search of Daha's Grave
 
"Daha Creek," I said looking at the trees that curled through the pastures to our left.

"Yep," my guide told me. "Named after ol' Chief Daha, a Kiowa-Apache. The government built three homes back then for three chiefs: Stumblingbear, Whiteman and Daha. Hoped it would settle them down. Daha's was over there on the knole in front of those trees."

I strained to look as the car slowed. The house had long been razed.

"Daha didn't live in it, though. Never would. It had two bedrooms, but Chief Daha lived in a tent down by the creek."

"You think we can find his grave?" I asked.

"Well, ... ," the ol' man said as he sped up. I had made arrangements with him to go over and see an Indian Cemetery not far from where I was staying.

We turned the corner at Boone, just West of Apache and drove South.

"How did Boone get its name?"

"Albert Boone. Named after Albert Boone, grandson of Daniel Boone, the Indian Agent at Anadarko for the Kiowa-Apache Tribe. He was still there in 1907 when Oklahoma became a state," my friend said and then brightened. "Boone was where I went to school for many years."

I saw a graveyard ahead and figured it was the cemetery we wanted.

"No that's not it," I heard him telling me. "That is the white Cache Creek Cemetery. The Indian one is further on down."

We drove another mile and turned back about 1/2 mile. There it was to our left. A kind of cement archway greeted us which said "Comanche Indian Cemetery - 1934". Beyond was a well kept cemetery, decorated with flowers from recent Memorial Day visitors. Actually the cemetery is located in a field with pasture to the left and wheat fields to the right with a row of Chinese Elms as the boundaries.

"All these Indian graves?"

"All but one. One white crippled lady who worked for the mission was buried out here - Anna Coleman."

"Which gravestone's Daha's?" I asked as we parked on a small road adjacent to some gravestones.

"Follow me," my guide ordered, then began to lead me over to some graves.

"There's noone that knows anymore about these graves than I do," he said. "Shoot, I went to school for years with a bunch of these Indians. Back in the late teens and early twenties, I guess."

He began to give me a tour of the cemetery. I was amazed at how many names I recognized from school: Poafpybitty, Oyebi, Chalepah, Archilta, Hugar, Cisco, Wetselline, Killsfirst, Redbird,... . Some of the graves had large headstones with both their "white" name and their Indian name. I couldn't begin to pronounce the Indian names.

"Most of the Indians with the big stones had oil," he said pointing out some of the larger toombstones.
Lots of infant graves could be seen; many of those marked only with wooden crosses. I couldn't help but think of my own daughter's grave in northern Oklahoma. Graves represent not only the completion of life, but also lives that were never completed. My heart began to ache.

"Look over here," he yelled. "Here's where the Parkers are buried. Surely you've heard of Qunnah Parker. This is his family."

I stared at the names: Lynn, Thomas, Jerome. Some of the graves were homemade. Others were obviously commercial. I remembered a Boy Scout camper from Lawton whose name was Qunnah Parker.

"Tom and Lynn were his sons," he continued. My thoughts were distracted.

One of the graves had "Cynthia Ann Parker - Infant of ...". Again I felt the pain.

Then my eyes caught a glimpse of a large, flat stone with an inscription.
Knox Takawana
1888-194
1
The Last of the horseback bow and arrow buffalo killers.

"I saw him perform one time. He tried to kill a buffalo with just a bow and arrow," my guide told me. He then pointed out other graves such as Yellowfish and his son, Wiley Yellowfish. He told how they raised longhorns and sold them to the whites who would, in turn, sell them to the government to give back to the Indians.
"There she is," he shouted.

He was pointing at a large tombstone, taller than all the others, with Anna Coleman's inscription.

My thoughts raced as I jotted down some notes. If I were to take a test over all these names, who they were or what they did, I wouldn't do well. I remembered a young Indian student who was making A's in Oklahoma History.

"You didn't do that well in your other history classes," I quizzed. "What's going on?"

"Mr. Hill, this is different. This is about my people." Was I beginning to understand?

"But where is Daha's grave?" I finally asked after about a half hour of fruitless searching.

"Well, I can't say for sure," my guide said. "You see they were buried by us white folks back then, and sometimes they didn't bother to mark the graves. He was probably the first one ever buried in this cemetery, but ... I can give you a good guess."

He walked over to the Chinese Elm tree that straddled the middle of the cemetery and then walked just North. There he stopped at some graves marked with just stones.

"If I were a bettin' man, I'd bet it would be one of these," he said as he pointed to a cluster of graves with a single stone marking their heads. There was no writing on any of them.

I stared. How much Indian history have we lost? How many unmarked graves and unmarked cemeteries hide a fortune in Indian lore right here in Western Oklahoma?

Published first in the Cemetery Edition of Westview - Southwestern University. Weatherford, Oklahoma.
Dale Hill (c) 1988

Assembling the Body

----- Charles Phipps, missionary to Italy, recently spoke at our small congregation to a gathering of men who represented an evangelistic association here in Southwestern Oklahoma. Our congregation is the smallest one among the association members, and sometimes it is easy for us to feel a bit overwhelmed with the attendance figures and the activities of our larger sister congregations. Like our congregation, our community is miniscule: devoid of such niceties as filling stations, schools, stores, and town governments. In fact, other than a small post office, our congregation is the only actively functioning organization in our hamlet.

----- For fun, I decided to reverse our prominently displayed Sunday school attendance figures for that evening meeting and say that those figures represented a "Texas" count, just to rib one of our outspoken Texas preachers who would, without a doubt, be present. Charles had fun with the reversed figures, as did most of the men - except the Texan. But then his eyes filled with tears as he related an experience in Italy.

----- "I remember one of the older ladies who comes to worship with us," Charles
reflected. "And I remember the time she came to me after the service and excitedly said, 'Oh, Brother Phipps, I'm so filled when we meet with the whole body!'"

----- Then tears began to roll down the missionary's cheeks as his voice conveyed the seriousness of his conviction. "There were only eight of us in attendance that Sunday morning," Charles confided. "Only eight!"

----- I know that I have been guilty of preparing better and delivering better for a large crowd than a small one. Sometimes I think that we all seem to look to our larger congregations for our success stories. "Moving up" in the ministry means moving to a larger congregation. It is easy to overlook the small congregation with the trite assumption that "they are just small because they think small." But is that true, or is that fair? It is interesting to note that the epistle writers referred to three small congregations, all meeting in homes (Romans 16:5; I Corinthians 16:19; Philemon 2).

----- How important is the assembling together of saints? Does the importance diminish with the number in attendance? Is the importance of a congregation measured only by numbers or baptisms or transfers? Or do Christians receive their spiritual sustenance, as did the elderly Italian lady, through the assembling of the body? "Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is" (Hebrews 10:25). Yes, evangelism is important, but so is the spiritual power received through the assembling of the saints - no matter how small the number - and the preaching of the gospel.

Published, February 16, 1986 "The Outlook", THE LOOKOUT, Christian Standard Publishing.
(c) 1986

A White Rose for Father's Day

----- Now I'll have to wear a white rose for Father's Day. I cringed bitterly as I gazed over the crowd gathered at my dad's funeral. His death was sudden. Too sudden. My thoughts went back five nights earlier.

----- "We'll come down Wednesday night and get a motel," he told me over the phone after church. "That way we can see Drema in her program.

----- Drema, our youngest, had a small but big part in her class's autumn program. With more than 170 other children in the second grade, it was an honor to have a speaking part, even if only a few lines. My parents didn't get down often, and we were excited

----- As we readied for school the next morning, the phone rang as our two oldest were fighting over the bathroom

----- "We can't make it down Wednesday after all," the caller said on the other end of the line, catching me by surprise. Not until I realized who the caller was, did I understand the call.

----- "I forgot. We have an important church board meeting Wednesday night. I'm sorry, but we'll try to make it down the next week. Maybe Friday," he concluded.

----- I knew how involved my dad was in his local church - he had been a deacon, a Sunday school teacher, an elder, the chairman of the board. He taught the adult Sunday school class. I understood and so did my wife.

----- "They're so busy," Marcella said as she combed out youngest's hair. "I would've been surprised if they had made it down.

----- After supper that evening, Drema and I sat down to our daily reading lesson. By 7:30, bath time was being discussed. We were deciding who had gone first last night and whose turn it was this night. The kids sat down to a few moments of television before their showers. The phone rang.

"Dale, I've got some bad news." It was my mother, and her voice was shaky. She paused and fought back whimpers. My thoughts quickly went to my grandmother who lives near her. Oh no, I thought. Grandma must have died.

----- Your dad died. The words changed against the edges of my consciousness, numbing my senses.

----- In times of tragedy, chaos reigns over those who are personally affected. My thoughts grew fuzzy as I tried to maintain composure. Could I be dreaming? My mother's gasping for breath and fighting back sobs brought me back to reality. I gained composure.

----- "Mom, what happened?

----- "A heart attack. He died in the emergency room about 6:30 this evening." Death can be quick and merciless.

----- The funeral was a large one. As an active church member and educator, my dad had lots of friends and associates and nearly every seat was filled. Even many elementary children came to say good-bye to their counselor. I looked back at all the family members and wondered what they were thinking, and then turned to face the crowd. Yes, we'd have to wear a white rose for Father's day this year

----- In the funeral car, my youngest brother moved in beside me and grabbed my arm.

----- "I was impressed," he said. "I couldn't believe the size of the crowd. I never realized how much influence a person could have."

----- I didn't say anything, just stared out the front window. It was true. Why hadn't I thought of it? Two memorials had already been established in my father's name, one for the church organ and the other for a graduating senior. His influence wasn't over. Then my mind quickly went back to the viewing room where my dad lay.

----- Staring at the open casket, I thought about a casket that Dad had carried back to Oklahoma from Kansas nearly 17 years ago, the one that took our first daughter to her final resting place. Now her grandpa would be next to her. How could he have done that? Could I have done that? I thought as I stared. I brushed back tears as I turned to leave. But, of course, tragedies can bring strength even to the weakest when we turn things over to the One who is stronger.

----- I looked up to see my dad's associate Sunday school teacher coming in to pay his respects.

----- "I was wondering if I could pin this on his lapel," the young man said. He handed me a little pin that was inscribed "Christian Educator." I reeled in sudden shock and braced myself against the doorjamb.

----- I'm sorry," I said. "The funeral will be closed casket. No one will be able to see it."

----- "That's all right. It's something I want to do."

----- The driver opened the car door and brought me out of my thoughts. Sure, we could celebrate Father's Day without him. We would celebrate his legacy - the importance of the Lord in his life, the importance of education, the importance of community involvement.; Celebrating Father's Day would be easy. Dad had left us a lot to celebrate.

----- I heard the starter grind as I smiled at my brother.

----- Yes, we would wear a white rose this year for Father's Day, proudly.

Published in THE LOOKOUT, Christian Standard on Father's Day, 1990, the year my dad died. He turned 70 the April before and died in October. The spring before, he want to his reunion at Granite, Oklahoma for the first time in his life. This article was published on June 17, 1990. Like Darla's article, this is one of my favorites. Dale

A Fisherman's Friendship

A Fisherman's Friendship

----- "Hey, Kansas!" the old fisherman said after taking the pipe out of his
mouth and tapping out some of the ash. "If your goina' do much good in this
lake, you better throw away that stringer and get one of these buckets."

----- "Not with what I caught," I laughed. "What are you fishing for?"

----- My license plate had given away my 500 mile trek from Northern Kansas to
Western Oklahoma, back to my Caddo County roots. An avid fisherman, it
didn't take me long to discover the lakes. Both Chickasha Lake and Fort
Cobb Lake were just fifteen minutes from my driveway. The lakes were
beautiful; filled with lots of blue, clear water that almost begged to be
fished.

----- It must of been the last of September or early October when I first met
him; I can remember the nippishness in the air and the wind out of the
north. My dog and I had fought the Fort Cobb Dam for nearly three hours and
had come up with only a half dozen or so small bass and a few perch, none
of them keepers. Frustrated, I was calling it a day.

----- "Sandbass, Kansas. Sandbass."

----- Sandbass. A fish biologist in Kansas had warned me about the regional
name for white bass here in Oklahoma, and I had heard that Fort Cobb Lake
teamed with "sandies" - an angler's delight.

----- I kind of smiled and moved on down closer. A good fisherman will heed the
advice of the old timers that line the banks of their favorite fishing holes.
Another old codger was fishing a little farther down, oblivious to anyone
around, as I approached. He, too, had a 5 gallon bucket at his side.

----- "What's wrong with this stringer?" I asked as I held it up.

----- "Sandbass don't usually bite until about sundown... . If you really get into
them, you don't want to waste time puttin' 'em on a stringer. Just throw
'em in the bucket and get your jig out again. Wait around. We might get into
a few."

----- "Naw," I said. "I think I'll call it a day." The old man reached out his hand,
and I took it. Shaking my hand 'vigorously', he introduced himself.

----- "Don Jones," he said. "Most folks 'round here call me 'Jones'. I live down
there at the Ski Boy Drive-In. I own the place. You ought to stop in
sometime; the food is good."

----- I introduced myself and bid both fishermen adieu.

----- Friendships are great, but there is something about a fisherman's
friendship ... . Jones's friendship was special. He taught me all about
fishing the Fort Cobb Dam - how to catch them, when to get out there,
when to give up. Mr. Jones even taught me about life.

----- "Can you think of a better place to be than here, Kansas?" he would ask
after an hour of less than productive fishing. "Best place in the world to
unwind. Draws you close to God."

----- Of course he was correct, and almost any day when the weather was bad, I
could be assured that ol' man Jones was out there fighting the wind off
the riprap near the east end of the dam, fishing for sandies. It was an
unannounced meeting place for us - a place where we could relax and jaw
a little. Jones came from Rocky, once the basketball capitol of Western
Oklahoma, but now he bid his time operating a small ice cream shop and
fishing Fort Cobb Lake.

----- "Kansas," he would say. "If you ever want to get a reputation as a
good fisherman, never tell anybody about the times you were skunked!"

----- Good advice for fishermen and non-fishermen alike. But that's not all he
taught me. With ole' man Jones, fishing wasn't competitive, though often
he would act like it was.
 
"When you caught that first bass," he would say. "It didn't make me mad
- just made me want to fish a little harder. But when you caught that
second one, now that hacked me off!"

----- Fishing the Fort Cobb Dam had a halcyonic affect on troubled minds,
especially when the fish were biting. One evening I took a fifth grader,
who was going through a particularly difficult divorce, out to the dam to
catch a few sandies and forget about the trials of familial turmoil. The
fish were biting. Jones was catching them one after the other, and I was
humping it to keep up with him.

----- "I keep getting bites, but I can't catch any," the lad complained urgently
after 15 minutes without a fish.

----- "Just keep your jig out there and you'll catch one pretty soon," I yelled
excitedly, not wanting to loose any fishing time by checking the boy's line
and lettin' the ol' master fisherman put it on my head.

----- Quickly Jones laid his rod down and took the youngster's out of the
water as I kept on fishing.

----- "Hoss," the old fisherman said loudly as he examined the boy's jig. "You
need to go home and tell your momma on Mr. Hill. This jig doesn't have a
hook on it. Mr. Hill sure didn't want you to catch many fish when he gave
you this reel!" Then he stopped examining the jig and looked at me. "Mr.
Hill, you should be ashamed!" I was.

----- Embarrassed and humbled, I took time out to put an artificial bait on my
friend's line and waited meekly for him to catch his first fish. Mr. Jones
always took a little time out for others, no matter how good the going
was or how bad.

----- One late winter day, when the wind was just right, I stopped by to pick
him up. Ol' Jones kind of blocked the door and didn't invite me in. I knew
something was wrong.

----- "Ah," he said with a quiver in his voice that was uncharacteristic of his
nearly 70 years of fishing. "I just haven't felt like fishing too much since
the woman died." He swallowed deeply and bravely fought back the tears.

----- I was crushed and speechless. I tried to offer him an apology. Stunned, I
drove down to the lake and stared at the water lapping against the rocks.
It was useless. I had lost any mood to fish. I found myself driving back
home without wetting a hook. It just wasn't the same.

----- Oh, I did see him out there a few times after that and even fished with
him some, but things were different. His smile wasn't as ready, and the
loss of his mate seemed to have robbed the ol' fisherman of his wisdom
and humor. No, he just wasn't the same.

----- One Spring day, nearly a year later, I was doing the school crosswalk
when I spotted ol' man Jones's son.

----- "I gotta' get over there and go fishin' with Mr. Jones," I said.

----- "Well, it'll be awhile," his son broke the news to me. "Jones had a stroke.
Bad one. It's not likely he'll ever go fishing again."

----- I was dazed. The cars blurred as my head spun, and I fought back tears. I
felt like going home - a semi-state of depression set in. Was my 10 years
of fisherman friendship over? Could I ever fish Fort Cobb again?

----- I was honored by serving as a pallbearer at his funeral not long after that.
The preacher talked about fishing and being a part of nature as I wiped the
tears away. My mind flashed back to bygone fishing experiences; those
times were over for good.

----- But now, when I'm found fishing along the Fort Cobb Dam, most assuredly
my thoughts go back to a better time - a time when ol' man Jones and I
shared a fisherman's tale and a fisherman's friendship. Yes, those times
are gone. But I'm sure as long as that dam beckons fishermen, it will
spawn new friendships. After all, fisherman friendships are eternal.
 
Published in WESTVIEW, 1990 - A non-pay publication out of Southwestern
State University, Weatherford, OK 73096 (c) Dale Hill This is one of my favorites.
}

God Didn't Take Her
  "Your teacher says that you've been gagging yourself to make yourself throw up."
The second grader was big for her age and a victim of circumstances beyond her control. I had struggled for two days to find time to see her.
"Uh-huh," she whispered softly with a vacant, dry-eyed stare.
"What are you thinking about when you gag yourself?"
"Mommy ... momma." Tears began to well up in eyes but quickly vanished.
Why do I hate this? I think. Why do I feel like throwing up? How come there's that same sinking, empty feeling in my stomach that I've experienced periodically for the last 12 years?
"Does throwing up help you bring your momma back?" I asked.
"Not really," she responded with an almost autistic stare.
Her mother died a few weeks earlier; a long, diabetic-induced illness, a couple of months in a coma with two weeks of brain-dead existence. This brave second grader had endured a horror of events.
"I think I caused my momma to go into a coma," she confided shortly after her mother's death. "If I hadn't seen her on that day, maybe she'd still be alive."
How come this is deja vu? I hate this. It's been 12 years and I'm still not fully recovered. How's this girl going to make it?
I celebrated my oldest daughter's fourteenth birthday birthday this year by staring at her picture for 30 minutes. I celebrated her birthday by noticing teenagers about her age. What would she have looked like? Would she be pretty? A good student? I celebrated her birthday by having an all-day, psychologically induced nauea just like I get each year on the date she died.
"I feel like throwing up sometimes, too" I shared with my distraught student. And my thoughts go back to the nightmare.
"Let's go look at our little girl!" Marcella said excitedly. "She's been using her table and chairs and coloring on some paper I left in there."
Our 17-month-od daughter was a joy to our lives. How often we had thanked God for this precious gift. we slipped to her door and silently peeked in to see what she was doing.
Disbelief and horror greeted us. Our precious baby was hanging by her chin on the end of her bed. An autopsy revealed a severed spinal cord, caused by a half-inch slip on a poorly constructed bed, a penchant for climbing, and naive parents who were not aware of the potential hazard of the headboard's lattice woodwork. The death was painless and instantaneous.
My wife's nursing skills took over. She started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and ordered me to call an ambulance or a doctor.
Panic and temporary insanity grippe,d my efforts at trying to communicated with an equally confused telephone operator. There was no ambulance service in our rura Kansas community back then. It took an hour of struggling to get a locally retired doctor, including a trip into town. My wife was still working on our daughter when the doctor and I came home.
The doctor moaned softly as he examined our lifeless toddler. Stethoscope in hand, he tried to convince us that our efforts were in vain.
"You take her on to the hopital," he urged. "I'll call ahead to let them know you are coming."
Did we cause this? Should we have checked on her earlier? Were we amiss not to have recognized the ominous silence from her room for what it was? We prayed on the way to the hospital that this might be a nightmare of that the doctor's diagnosis was incorrect. We secretly harbored the feeling that our daughter was still alive, waiting only to be revived by an unseen, caring hand.
"How come everybody at my church keeps praying for my momma," the little girl had questioned weeks earlier, "but she just keeps getting worse?"
"Your momma is ver sick, and some of her body's organs are not working right. God is not taking your momma. Your momma may be dying, and God will take her spiritual body to Heaven if she does die." I hoped my explanation could be understood. Death can be the final reality for even the most fervent prayers.
"Just think," said our funeral director. "God took your little girl for a reason. He had better use for her elsewhere."
My soul and reason cried out, "God didn't take her! He wouldn't punish a proud Christian mother and father by taking an innocent child!"
"She's been baptized," said a mother with a very sick, newborn preemie. "If God takes our little girl, we're ready," a new mother and father shared with us a few months after our girl's death. Marcella broke into sobs, and I began to feel nauseous. God doesn't take little babies! Our disappointed thoughts permeated our departure.
The second grader stared at the blackboard in front of me. "I don't have anyone to talk to. My dad is in another town, and I'm staying at my aunt's."
"You can talk to me anytime you want. I'll try to mke time." I thought about my thankless schedule. he right type of talking and friendship does help, but the remorse never goes away.
The phone ran. The caller invitedmy wife and me to a "charismatic" fellowship. "The Lord had a purpose for your daughter's death: a closer and fuller relationship with Jesus Christ." Numbness dulled my senses. Am I believing what is being said? Is this Christianity? God didn't take our daughter; ti was purposeless accident!
"It feels like a train took half your heart away," our preacher empathized at the emergency room. Thank God for cognizant and understanding preachers who are available. "Why don't you tow spend the night at our house? It will be a long night, and you probably won't sleep anyway, but at least you won't have to stay in your lonely house." My wife and I didn't realize the importance of that invitation until years later. Numbness related to death doesn't begin to lift for weeks or maybe months after a tragedy.
"Have you been crying much?" I asked my suffering little friend.
"Not really," she countered. "I've got to learn to live with it."
"That's right," I said. "But you never get over it. It's been 12 years since our little girl died, and I'm still not full recovered. But it gets easier as time passes."
I offered her some verbal support. "Throwing up isn't going to help bring her back, is it?"
A silent shake of her head met my question. The she brightened. "Could I enter the 'Ho Ho Coloring Contest'?"
"Sure. Let's get some paper!"
My friend began to beam.
Why has it taken 12 years to pen this? How long does it take to recover from a death?
There are pictures missing from our family photo album, and our lives will never be complete without them."
Published, August 17, 1986 /THE LOOKOUT. Standard Publishing. (Marcella and I still cannot read this without tears.) (c) Dale Hill
 

Wynton Marsalis, the man with the

plan to teach the world all about jazz. Our daughter, Holli, played for the Jazz Band at East Central University for 4 years. In that time, she had the opportunity to meet Wynston Marcellus, whose drive to "Spread The Gospel Of Jazz," took him away from a more than lucrative job in Hollywood.

Jay Leno asked Wynton to be his band, and Wynton accepted it. Within one or two weeks, Marsalis split? Why?




(Paraphrased) "My purpose in life is not to play next to a comedian the rest of my life, and lose my intense desire to teach the world about Jazz." Now, Kevin Eubanks' band, graces the Tonight Show, and endures the jokes and has fun doing it, beside and behind Jay Leno.

You don't have to look far to find Marsalis in the world of music. I've seen him lots on the PBS programs, always teaching, ... usually to students at prestigeous music programs.

"Learn how to make your trumbet GROWL," he says to one student who has the notes down, but not the improvisation.


I say, "If he can do that with a trumpet, I can do it with a harp." I'll steal anything I can for my harpin'.

From Scott Joplin and improvised rag to total improvisation of one musical theme. May we call it a LOOP?

NEGRO SPIRITUAL, RAG, ... TO JAZZ

A definitive look at the progression from the Spiritual singing in the fields of cotton, to rag, improvizational of both, into JAZZ, ... one of the greatest forms of purely American music to come out of "The South," in and around New Orleans.

Show me a song with "Dem" in it, and I will show you a Spiritual song. There are lots of examples of "Negro Spirituals," and when you look them up using google, be sure and add the word "Negro." Here is one that is long, and I have it memorized. Sisters and brothers, this "ain't" no "White Mens song. How can you tell?

(Picture is Randy Matthews, doing his thing with Christian music, and he's songs are Spiritually inspired.)
Dem Bones

Chorus:
I know it brother brother,
Indeed I know it brother, I know it HEY!
Dem bones gonna rise again

The lord he thought he'd make a man.
DEM BONES GONNA RISE AGAIN!
So he made Adam cordin' to a plan.
DEM BONES GONNA RISE AGAIN!

Repeat chorus:

Thought he'd make a woman too.
The Lord didn't know just what to do.
Took a rib from Adam's side.
For to make Miss Eve, his bride.

Repeat chorus

Put 'em in a garden wide and fair.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Told 'em to eat what they found there.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Peaches, pears, plums and such.
Dem bones gonna rise again
But the apple tree you better not touch.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

One day Miss Eve was walking around
Dem bones gonna rise again
.Spied that tree all loaded down.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Serpent crawling around that trunk.
Dem bones gonna rise again
At miss Eve, his eye he wunk.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Eve, she just took a little pull.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Then she filled her fig leaf full.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Adam, he just took a little bite.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Said um'um woman that sure am nice.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

One day the Lord was walking around.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Spied them peels all over the ground.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

The Lord cried out in his mighty voice.
Dem bones gonna rise again
That shook the heavens to the joists.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Cried, Adam, Adam, Where art though?
Dem bones gonna rise again
Here I is Lord, I's comin' now.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Adam, Adam, did you eat these?
Dem bones gonna rise again
No massa Lord, I 'spect it was Eve.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Then the Lord rose up in his might wrath,
Dem bones gonna rise again
Said ya'll just beat it down the path.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Put an angel at the door.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Said ya'll don't come 'round here no more.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

Eve took the needle, Adam took the plow.
Dem bones gonna rise again
That's why we're all working now.
Dem bones gonna rise again

Repeat chorus

To this tale there ain't no more.
Dem bones gonna rise again
Eve got the Apple, and Adam got the core.
Dem bones gonna rise again

I have been singing this song for ever. It's not easy to memorize, since it is very long. The Boy Scouts think this song is written for them.

SWING LOW SWEET CHARIOT

Lead: Swing low, sweet chariot
Chorus: Coming for to carry me home
Lead: Swing low, sweet chariot
Chorus: Coming for to carry me home
Lead: If you get there before I do
Chorus: Coming for to carry me home
Lead: Tell all my friends, I’m coming too
Chorus: Coming for to carry me home

WADE IN THE WATER (This one is on order. Staple Family)

Wade in the water
Wade in the water, children,
Wade in the water
God's a-going to trouble the water

See that host all dressed in white
God's a-going to trouble the water
The leader looks like the Israelite
God's a-going to trouble the water

See that band all dressed in red
God's a-going to trouble the water
Looks like the band that Moses led
God's a-going to trouble the water

Look over yonder, what do you see?
God's a-going to trouble the water
The Holy Ghost a-coming on me
God's a-going to trouble the water

If you don't believe I've been redeemed
God's a-going to trouble the water
Just follow me down to the Jordan's stream
God's a-going to trouble the water

Yet another.

Lyrics for Song: God's Gonna Cut You Down
Lyrics for Album: American V: A Hundred Highways
You can run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.

Go and tell that long tongue liar,
Go and tell that midnight rider,
Tell the rambiler, the gambler, the back biter,
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down.

Well my goodness gracious,
Let me tell you the news.
My heads been wet with the midnight dew.
I've been down on bended knee,
Talkin to the man from Galiee.
He spoke to me in a voice so sweet,
I thought I heard the shuffle of angels feet.
He called my name and my heart stood still,
When He said "John go do my will"

Go and tell that long tongue liar,
Go and tell that midnight rider,
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter,
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down.

You can run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.

You can throw your rock, hide your hand,
Workin in the dark against your fellow man.
But as sure as God made black and white,
What's done in the dark,
Will be brought to the light.

You can run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.
Sooner, or later, God'll cut you down.

Go and tell that long tongue liar,
Go and tell that midnight rider,
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter,
Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down.

Please notice the repetition in all of the above. These are definitely Spirituals, and definitely were written to be sung in parts. In our choir, we practice on these kinds of songs. I have sung many of them.

I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved.
I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved.
Just like a tree standing near the water.
I shall not be moved.

It's a short jump from these improvised songs, to music, which starts with a musical theme and explores it by each member of the band. A good jazz song could last for 15 or 20 minutes.