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Our roots run deep like the mighty Mississippi flowing from
the Midwest
And out of the mouth of its southern delta.
Our hearts sit on grandma's porch filled with laughter on a
rainy day
And lives with the smell of sweet peaches baked under fresh, hand pressed dough.
And lives with the smell of sweet peaches baked under fresh, hand pressed dough.
Our roots run deep like coals in the bottom of a barbeque
pit
Lighting up backyard aromas on the second Saturday of the
month.
Family recipes passed down from aunt to niece, from
grandfather to son
And from mother to daughter in a never ending cycle of
soulful meals.
Our roots run deep like great monarchies of kings and
queens.
Just as the great Pharaoh built his pyramid to withstand the
test of time,
We build our home to be a symbol of strength, intelligence,
and love.
This family is a proud legacy of our ancestors.
Our roots run deep like the soul of a juke joint bluesman.
They groove to classic hits cruising down the
boulevard.
These roots of ours connect us to a continent of hope and
faith.
Aunts, uncles, cousins, mothers, fathers, brothers,
sisters, grandparents and friends alike.
Our roots run deep like a fresh January snow;
It runs deep like a baritone voice moaning from the Sunday
choir.
Our hearts meditate between pews and old hymnals that tell
us who we are.
Amen, amen, amen.
