Travis Porter they call me that’s all,
Indian artifacts I’ve bought and sold,
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,
A well read red-man lies here cold.

What endured no one knows,
A holy man there once stood,
Now his bones came to rest,
In a piney box made of wood.

In 1864 that jury voted him guilty,
Hunged this Apache from a tree,
The voters rejected Abe Lincoln,
Proved all God’s chillins ain’t free.

A shadow is coming over me,
Sacrifice not tears nor breath,
Cold creeping my soul a’chill,
Freedom’s found in my death.

Is Christ just a name in the book?
Are my sins cast away from me?
As far as the East is from West,
Nailed up with him onto the tree.

See! Poor Apaches I never knew,
Now hear a tom-tom’s drummer,
Yonder Indian hand plays for me,
Unbeknownst my distant brother.