[Intro] [Old Piano, Slightly Detuned, Playing Hymn Fragment] [Verse 1] [Female Vocal — Intimate, Barely Above Speaking] Twelve years old, first time at the keys Reverend Berry asked, and my fingers said please Mama cleaned houses east in Mountain Brook Papa poured iron, came home smelling like a burnt book That old upright was donated from Chicago Slightly out of tune in a way I learned to love I could make it cry when the hymn called for crying I could make it sound like Sunday from above [Chorus] [Organ Swells, Single Choir Voice Joins] Precious Lord, take my hand I played it once for every grief this city planned Precious Lord, I played it four times in one week Once for Addie Mae, once for Cynthia Once for Carole, once for Denise The sanctuary went quiet and my hands came off the keys [Verse 2] [Piano + Voice] My brother Adolphus — three years older, three years mad Parker High, four thousand kids, not enough desks to be had He marched with Shuttlesworth, got arrested, got blacklisted Took a Greyhound up to Detroit, thirty-one years — never twisted I drove him to the station, didn't play no music for the ride "You coming back?" I asked him "When there's something to come back to," he replied He won every argument he ever had with Birmingham Won every argument and lost everything besides [Chorus] [Choir Grows — Two, Then Three Voices] Precious Lord, take my hand Same hymn, eighty years, same piano, different man Precious Lord, I played for weddings and for war Played when King was shot, played when the mills closed the door Same song, never the same song twice 'Cause I was different every time I paid the price [Bridge] [Spoken Word — Old Woman's Voice, Single Organ Note] Curtis never left. Adolphus never came back. Both of them right. Both of them broken in different places. One broke from leaving. One broke from staying. Both of them loved Birmingham the way you love something that hurt you so bad you either have to leave or you have to fix it. And there is no in between. [Verse 3] [Piano Returns, Gentle] Curtis Threadgill, four houses down, same block Taught machine shop twenty-three years, never watched the clock When the mills closed he retrained the workers in the church Same fellowship hall, same hymn book, same search Eighty-two years old, he walked into the meeting When they closed Birmingham-Southern, two thousand twenty-four Stood up in the back and said what needed speaking: "Let the teaching continue. That's what the campus is for." [Final Chorus] [Full Gospel Choir — Sunday Morning Sound] Precious Lord, take my hand Ella played from thirty-six to twenty-sixteen Ninety-two years old, hands still finding the keys in the dark Same hymn, new grief, same spark The piano doesn't care who's sitting down It just waits for your hands The piano doesn't care who's sitting down It just waits for your hands [Outro] [Solo Piano — The Hymn Fragment Again, Fading] Furnace fire... church fire... Both burned in Birmingham One made steel... one made saints...
