One potatoe, two potatoe, have you seen the man who swallowed the possum.
The man that swallowed the possum sits behind a desk, stacking papers one up, one down'”
One up, one down, stack the papers, stack them up, stack them high, count them as they come in.
One potatoe, two potatoe, stack the papers high, stack them low, and toss them up, listen to the hum.
Waving the stack, he sits at the desk in a small town.
Elected by default, as no other candidate chose to run, or perhaps no other candidate could?
Never the mind, the man who swallowed the possum sits in shirt in tie, believing himself another win.
Laughing in glee the man sees the stacks, no faces can he name save maybe one alone.
Shifting the stacks, counting the dollars as an agreement he’s made, a plea you see.
A plea for one, a high rate of conviction he claims, but my dear who can trust a man who would swallow live a possum?
The man, who swallowed the possum, walks marbled floors, with a heart of ice.
Seeing no faces, seeing only statistics, the man who swallowed the possum, counts the stacks —
Shifting the stacks the man calculates his accounts, pretending to care the possum shows in his eyes.
Dead yet alive the possum shows’, laughing the possum pretends to hide, as the man’s eyes open wide.
Counting potatoes, one potatoe, two potatoe, do you know who hoes the rows?
Stacking papers, shifting weights, seeing no faces the possum walks the marbled halls.
Long since has the man’s heart been stolen, eaten alive by the possum who now resides.
Sitting at the table the possum, adjusts his tie.
Adjusting his tie, the possum stands, asking another “will this plea agreement you accept?”
Knowing just well, guilt cannot be proven the possum, waits, eagerly anticipating the row.
One potatoe, two potatoe, can you see the hoe.
Digging deep, cracking potatoes, leaving many scattered, rotting in the fields —
The possum walks with a heart of stone, seeing no faces.
The possum laughs with glee as another assumed conviction he makes.
Seeing no faces, the possum laughs, knowing full well the plea.
Stacking papers, one by one, laying out agreements, shifting weight the possum strides with a naked tail.
One potatoe, two potatoe, shuffling down the street, the possum, sees no faces.
Faces, shadows stare out as the possum waddles along, never seeing the broken trails —
Two, three, four, step up, step up, who do you see standing up, striding along whispering into heavy ears —
Words so untrue, words so loud the darkness divides, the possum swells in pride believing himself free.
Returning again to the marbled halls, entering again and again, the room of dark polished woods'”
The possum sowing seeds of contention, stacks the papers, one up, one down, over and over again, lining the rows.
Stack ‘˜em up, stack ’em high, stack them low, the possum’s planting rows deep and wide.
Lining the halls with seeds of contention, spinning around in a wheeled chair, the possum smirks.
Round and round the possum goes, walking the marbled jaded halls, seeing no faces.
Grabbing yet another stack the possum waddles into the next room and begins again, one up, one down —
Round and round the possum spins, never seeing the contention, believing himself free.
Believing himself free he waddles in his pride.
Prideful, and deceitful, he hands yet another a plea to accept.
A plea to agree to charges that will indict, incite, and line the rows.
Line the rows, line the rows, stack one, stack two, up one, down two, the possum sees no faces.
Contention is the possum’s seed, soon will come the reapers sickle, reaping the seed that was sown in many places.
One up, one down, the reaper is coming; the reaper is coming, soon from life to death the possum will pass.
Soon the possum will stand, and no plea agreement will be accepted but the plea of the blood soaked lamb.
The possum will stand, as you, as I.
The possum, no plea agreement will be accepted, no back door handshakes, only one way.
You see Mr. Possum there is but one path, one way, and no other name that will you from eternity’s prison save.
Mr. Possum, did you not know, did you never hear the truth, the truth Mr. Possum, is we are not all covered by the lamb’s holy blood.
I ask you now, Mr. Possum, are you covered, have you looked carefully to your ways, have you counted the cost?
Mr. Possum, are you covered, are you truly covered? If not then surely your final dwelling will not be a place lined with marble and jade, neither polished finished wood veneer.
You see Mr. Possum, there is but one place for all those who’ve neglected the only truth.
Mr. Possum, truth is truth; never can truth be bargained away, a price you see is required.
The price Mr. Possum is the ultimate and final reward for all flesh is more than you should be willing to pay.
No, Mr. Possum the price it is not one that can be paid with money, it is the price my dear that the dear lamb of God, paid just for you, and just for me, and for all who will believe.
The price Mr. Possum, it has been paid, paid in full. Paid in full, and it is a gift.
But my dear Mr. Possum a true gift is never forced, never bargained, and never stolen.
You say I lie, no Mr. Possum, a gift that is forced it is no gift, it is an obligation, it is not free.
You say I lie, no, Mr. Possum, a gift it is never bargained away, never twisted it is always given in love; it is free to the recipient.
You say, I lie, no, Mr. Possum, a gift it is never stolen, you see Mr. Possum a gift that is stolen is no gift it is damaged merchandize. A gift of love is a promise that is true.
A gift of love it was given a few years back on a bloody and weary hill.
The place of the skulls, the place of the dead that is where you’ll find the price for your free entry into paradise was made.
The place of the dead is where a lamb was slain, shedding his blood to cover all your bloody deeds.
Bloody deeds, done by both you and me, bloody deeds of mine and flesh, all covered if only you’ll go near the blood.
Will you not Mr. Possum go near the bloody tree and see the gift that was slain.
Paving for you and for me, and all a way to freedom, that is free.
Look at your stacks, Mr. Possum, what do you see, one up, one down, can you not see your own face.
Mr. Possum do you not see there will be no plea agreements accepted when you stand alone before that judgment throne, without the blood, you’ll fall alone into the dark and fiery lake.
Coals of fire, will rain, the elements that today are will melt away, a place it’s been made.
A place made for all; it is your choice and yours alone along which path your feet will walk.
Your choice, and yours alone, you see Mr. Possum, the seeds you’ve sown today you will reap tomorrow.
Sowing and reaping, it is the law of the Harvest, sow to the wind, and the wind it is you’ll weep.
Mr. Possum, stack your stacks, stack them up, one up, one down, see the rows, see the silver, see the gold.
But Mr. Possum, beware as the story you’ve claimed to heard once and again, for it is true, check the log, check the Book, you’ll see the truth to you it’s been told.
Accountable you are, account you will give, the same as every other soul, but my dear Mr. Possum do you not know, if alone you stand then surely you will perish.
Your account must be paid in full, you must His gift accept, if not then my friend surely I feel sorry for you.
Forgive I must, even to you that are unjust, to you that are without knowledge, without eternal hope.
But my dear possum, do you not understand I cannot forgive of myself alone, it is only because I’ve waded deep in the Blood of the Lamb.
The Blood of the Lamb, it covers all.
If it were not but for the blood, I’d be as you, cold as stone, stacking pages, stacking dollars, keeping score, forgetting the door that leads to the final hall.
The door for me is opening soon, this I know, but do you dear Mr. Possum, not know the same is true for you.
The same is true for us all, whether it be today, tomorrow or a hundred years the door to the final judgment hall it is creaking open, the destination sealed forever by the choice we make today.
Today, dear Mr. Possum is the day of salvation.
You as I are not promised tomorrow, stack your deals, shake your hands, wipe your bloody lips, and see soon the fate of all who reject the only way that leads past the judgment seat into the fields of paradise.
Fields of paradise, streets of gold, walls of pearl, jasper, and all the rest'”
A city, and a country more beautiful than any you or I could ever imagine, is this the city to which you go?
Or have you chosen to go via the way of the common way, the wide way, the road that leads to a pit that ends at the lake that burns forever.
You see Mr. Possum, life it is short, short and dear, this flesh is only a shell, but it is the vapour contained within, that lives forever.
There are only two places to live outside your mortal shell, the vapour cannot wander, it has a destination.
That destination my friend it is chosen today, while contained within the walls of clay —