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(C)Hush,
little baby, don't you (Gmin)cry;
You (C)know your mama (Amin)was
born to (F)die;
(C)All (Amin)my
(Dmin)trials, Lord, (G)soon
be (C)over.
I've got a little
book with pages three;
And every page spells liberty;
All my trials, Lord, soon be over.
There grows a tree
in paradise;
And the pilgrims call it The Tree of Life;
All my trials, Lord, soon be over.
River Jordan is
muddy and cold;
Well, it chills the body but not the soul;
All my trials, Lord, soon be over.
If livin' was a
thing that money could buy;
Then the rich would live and the poor would die;
All my trials, Lord, soon be over.
Too late, my brothers;
Too late, but never mind;
All my trials, Lord, soon be over.
All my trials,
Lord, soon be over.
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