“Praise choruses?” said his wife. “What are those?”
“Oh, they’re OK. They are sort of like hymns, only different,” said the farmer.
“Well, what’s the difference?” asked his wife.
The farmer said, “Well, it’s like this – If I were to say to you “Martha, the cows are in the corn”’ – well, that would be a hymn. If on the other hand, I were to say to you:
Martha, Martha, Martha, Oh Martha, MARTHA, MARTHA, the cows, the big cows, the brown cows, the black cows, the white cows, the black and white cows, the COWS, COWS, COWS are in the corn, are in the corn, are in the corn, are in the corn, the CORN, CORN, CORN.Then, if I were to repeat the whole thing two or three times, well, that would be a praise chorus.”
The next weekend, his nephew, a young, new Christian from the city came to visit and attended the local church of the small town. He went home and his wife asked him how it was. “Well,” said the young man, “it was good. They did something different however. They sang hymns instead of regular songs.”
The young man said, “Well, it’s like this – If I were to say to you ‘Martha, the cows are in the corn’ – well, that would be a regular song. If on the other hand, I were to say to you:
‘Oh Martha, dear Martha, hear thou my cryInclinest thine ear to the words of my mouthTurn thou thy whole wondrous ear by and byTo the righteous, inimitable, glorious truth.
‘For the way of the animals who can explainThere in their heads is no shadow of senseHearkenest they in God’s sun orHis rain Unless from the mild, tempting corn they are fenced.‘Yea those cows in glad bovine, rebellious delightHave broke free their shackles, their warm pens eschewedThen goaded by minions of darkness and nightThey all my mild Chilliwack sweet corn have chewed.‘So look to the bright shining day by and byWhere all foul corruptions of earth are rebornWhere no vicious animals make my soul cryAnd I no longer see those foul cows in the corn.’