| In the town of Tifton, Georgia
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| On a hot and dusty day
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| You could see the heat coming off the ground
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| Up the street a man came running
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| Stumbling on his way
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| And he shouted that the gospel singer is coming to our town
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| Hallelujah the gospel singer is coming
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| Hallelujah the gospel singer is coming
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| He was born in Tipton, Georgia
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| With a voice as pure as gold
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| And his hair was golden as the sun
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| Drinking and women were his friends
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| But the people did not know
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| That he did not feel the songs he sung
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| Hallelujah the gospel singer is coming
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| Hallelujah yeah the gospel singer is coming
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| In a tent, a thick tarpaulin
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| In a pasture near the town
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| The people came and waited all day long
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| There were some who could not walk
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| And some who could not see
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| And it was believed that he could help them with his songs
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| But the singer he had grown tired
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| Of the life that he had lived
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| And to the rich and poor, sick and cripple
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| He looked at them and said
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| I cannot cure your illness
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| And I cannot make you see
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| For I have loved your women
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| And I sang to you for money
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| In the town of Tipton, Georgia
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| The sun was arising
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| But not a soul was seen out on the street
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| But some had gathered in the pasture
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| And were staring outside to believe
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| At the shadow of the singer
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| 'Neath the tall and lonesome pine tree
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| Hallelujah, hallelujah … |