You Must Be Born Again Lyrics

Long ago, I didn't know nothing about Jesus and His love
I had heard about Him, but I had never felt
this manna which comes down from above
In this life of sin I could no longer stand
I asked my mother how do you get to know the man
She said you must be, don't you see you've got to be ....Born again
You must have that fire and Holy Ghost
that Burning churning keeps the prayer wheel turning
The kind of religion you cannot conceal
It makes you move, makes you shout,
Makes you cry when it's real
I've got my hand right in the windin' chain
My souls been anchored in my Jesus' name
I'm filled within, I've free from sin
You know I've been born again
I started to walk, I had a new walk
I started to talk, I had a new talk
I looked at my hands, my hands looked new
I looked at my feet and they did too
I've got my hand right in the windin' chain
My souls been anchored in my Jesus' name
I'm filled within, I've free from sin
You know I've been born again

 While exploring Harry William’s anthology of American folk music I reached volume two and I heard “ Must be born again “ Now if you are a Christian African American born and raised in Atlanta Georgia, its no coincidence that you may feel a connection with this song. I felt one.  I think a connection was established the moment I read the name of the song. While listening to the song I began to recollect being a child on a warm and humid day in Georgia going to church. Its Sunday morning my room is dirty as always. My moms voice lurks through the cracks of my closed bedroom door. I crawl out of my bed realizing its Sunday. I don’t know how many other children felt about waking up early and going to church in the morning but it was not one of my favorite things to do. My brothers and I never made going to church easy. The constant search for dress shoes and ties aided in slowing down how fast we left for church. If successful we would be at least 30 minutes late to service. There is a funny thing about Georgia weather; It would rain at least twice a week. Sometimes my mom wouldn’t wake my brothers and I to go to church if the weather was bad but I guarantee you it rarely rains on Sunday in Georgia and lets not forget to mention that Sundays for whatever reason are the hottest day of a Georgia week. My mom drove a small red Nissan with peeling red paint. It was never a joyous occasion when we went to church. If my brothers and I didn’t want to pass out in church we would sleep during the 15-minute car ride.  

As I continued to listen to “Must be Born Again” I wasn’t feeling the angst of my childhood. Instead I felt the feeling of appreciation.   I could clearly picture how a Sunday morning was in church. It’s hot and muggy. I could see church benches, rows of them. Made out of oak wood that glimmers in the sunlight. They were always so uncomfortable to sit on as a child but there a comfortable part of me. I remember all the old heads and how they dressed they’re best every Sunday.  The constant “amens” shouted in agreement to the pastor words. I recollect sitting next to a group of old lady’s who would secretly my brothers and I candy.  I remember the singing choir and pastor who habitually would ask us to turn to certain pages in the hymnbook to sing along. I can tell you that old black people didn’t seem that lively any other day of the week. You could see dust particles illuminating in the light as the sun crept through the colors of the stained glass windows.  As a child I didn’t enjoy being at church but when I sang along with people who were two generations ahead of me its easy to understand why spirituals are a huge part of my identity. My people have always sung spirituals and as result I can’t help but feel a connection that resonates with my past and my identity. “ Must be born again” took me to that place. In the Baptist, when you join the church you are constantly asked if you’ve been born again and if you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as you lord and savoir. Old churches in the south have become precious anachronisms and the spirituals that you hear in them are an important part of history.

This is the painting that I did for the song autumn leaves.  The painting has changed however and before it was altered it originally was a a green background displaying a hint of orange. I wanted to experiment with colors for this piece. Experimenting with a method that could possible evoke various meanings as it did in class. Now, the painting has strokes of white which obscure the green as well possibly denote another meaning. Autumn leaves is a metaphor for various things. One of which, that is the most apparent is love. Love comes and goes, and so does autumn. Whilst being a sad concept it also is elevating. I don't agree with the concept of love coming and going. I believe love comes and it stays. Depending on its growth and the strength of its connection love can be eternal regardless between who or what you love. Maybe its naive for me to think so. Maybe its naive for musicians, playwrights, singers,  and painters to eternalize this feeling. Maybe just like the obscurity that exists on the painting above is the same as my understanding of love