It is a legacy, it was handed down to me,
A poor dirt farmer, a skinny mule,
He parts the red clay like it was the Red Sea,
It is a legacy to both me and you,
You are a black man, I am a white man,
We both come from the Southland,
Both doing the best we can,
Where the grim reaper was my brother’s keeper,
The way my brother was kept, small wonder Jesus wept.
It is a legacy passed down to you and me,
What we’re taught to believe, we never question these things,
It is a legacy, it’s a wild and a bitter seed,
Blown across those fertile fields where the roots run deep.
We both got calloused hands,
Blue-collar working men down here in Bubba-land,
What’s in a name?
Both living rent to rent, some on the government,
We are quite different, we are the same.
It is a legacy passed down to you and me,
What we learned to believe, we never question these things,
It is a legacy, it’s a wild and a bitter seed,
Blown across those fertile fields where the roots run deep.
Where the roots run deep,
Oh,
Oh.
Sundays we congregate, praise Jesus, pass the plate,
Sitting in our Sunday best, singing hymns and mopping sweat,
We learned the golden rule in separate Sunday schools,
In a house long divided against itself.
It is a legacy passed down to you and me,
What we choose to believe, we dare not question these things,
It is a legacy, it’s a wild and a bitter seed,
Blown across those fertile fields where the roots run deep.
