Ruben James,
in my song you'll live again.
The phrases that I write are just the footsteps out of time,
the time when I knew you, Ruben James.
Ruben James,
all the folks around Madison County cussed your name.
Just a no-count sharecropping colored
man who would steal anything he can,
and everybody laid the blame on Ruben James.
Ruben James,
you still walk the furrowed fields of my mind.
The faded shirt,
the weathered brow,
the calloused hands upon the plow.
I loved you then and I love you now,
Ruben James.
Flora Gray,
the gossip of Madison County died with child.
And although your skin was black,
you were the one that didn't turn your back
on the hungry white child with no name,
Ruben James.
Ruben James,
with your mind on my soul and a Bible in your right hand,
you said turn the other cheek.
There's a better world awaiting for the meek,
and in my mind these words remain from Ruben James.
Ruben James,
you still walk the furrowed fields of my mind.
The faded shirt,
the weathered brow,
the calloused hands upon the plow.
I loved you then and I love you now,
Ruben James.
Ruben James,
one dark cloudy day that brought you from the field,
until your lonely pine box came,
just a picture of me in the rain,
just to sing one last refrain for Ruben James.
Ruben James,
you still walk the furrowed fields of my mind.
The faded shirt,
the weathered brow,
the calloused hands upon the plow.
I loved you then and I love you now,
Ruben James.
Ruben James,
you still walk the furrowed fields of my mind.
The faded shirt,
the weathered brow,
the calloused hands upon the plow.
I loved you then and I love you now,
Ruben James.