My father was a man of love. He always loved me to death. He worked hard in the fields, but my father never hit me. Never. I don't ever remember a really cross, unkind word from my father.

I had an empathy for prisoners and did concerts for them back when I thought that it would make a difference - you know? - that they really were there to be rehabilitated.

The gospel of Christ must always be an open door with a welcome sign for all.

San Quentin, may you rot and burn in hell. May your walls fall and may I live to tell.

If you aren't gonna say exactly how and what you feel, you might as well not say anything at all.

A song stylist is, like, to take an old folk song like "Delia's Gone" and do a modern white man's version of it.

My mother told me to keep on singing, and that kept me working through the cotton fields. She said God has his hand on you. You'll be singing for the world someday.