Hit’s better, my friend, that ye keep just a mite,
so yer hands stay clean an’ yer heart pure an’ white;
than pockets a-bulgin’ with the world’s wicked load,
an’ yer soul left a-thirstin’ down riches’ dark road.
Hit’s better a crust with some peace settin’ by,
than a table a-groanin’ while the Lord stands aside;
for the money of the scoundrel makes a hard, hollow sound,
but the voice of his conscience don’t never die down.
The rich man’s fine silver may glitter like sun,
but the night comes a-fetchin’ him where his sinnin’ begun;
an’ the poor man that stands right afore his Maker true
holds a treasure no moth an’ no rust can undo.
Don’t ye eye that fat money-poke hangin’ so low,
for evil’s got teeth an’ a long hungry jaw;
what shines like a blessin’ in the palm of yer hand
can turn bitter as gall ‘fore the next day has dawned.
So give me but little, O Lord—just enough for the day,
an’ a heart that can wait on Yer goodness the way;
for hit’s better to walk poor on the straight narrow path
than with pockets a-full to face judgment’s hard wrath.
Yes, better bare feet that keep walkin’ aright
than shiny fine shoes while yer soul’s sold outright;
better little in hand with my Lord close beside—
than the whole world’s rich heap, an’ Heaven denied.
“Salt of the earth to salt of the earth.”
Born among the Griqua people of South Africa as the Afrikaans poem “Dis Beter So,” it is here brought to life in the plain, old-time mountain speech of the Appalachian people — kindred folk across the sea.
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