It was the final moment of the service.
The sanctuary was still. The sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows painted soft colors across the casket of Reverend Jimmy Swaggart, resting at the front of Family Worship Center for one last time.
And then, with trembling hands, Donnie Swaggart stepped forward—not to preach, but to sing.
The hymn was familiar. It was the one his father had sung for decades. The one that played before countless altar calls. The one Jimmy would hum alone at the piano when no one else was around.
“There Is a River…” Donnie began, voice low, the sanctuary holding its breath.
He made it through the first verse, holding back tears. The second, his voice cracked—but he pushed on. But as he reached the final line, the words caught in his throat. He gripped the microphone, eyes shut tight, lips quivering.
And then he said it:
“I can’t sing where he’s already singing…”
The congregation gasped. Some sobbed.
“He’s already home,” Donnie whispered, stepping back. “He’s already at the throne.”
In that moment, the hymn stopped. But no one felt it was incomplete—because heaven had picked up the melody.
Donnie didn’t need to finish the song.
His silence spoke louder than any lyric could.
After a long pause, he looked up, tears streaming, and said:
“He sang me to sleep as a boy… and now I’ve sung him to glory.”
The casket was then lowered, accompanied not by applause, not by instruments, but by the sound of people quietly weeping and praying.
Because it wasn’t just a funeral—it was a father’s song, completed by a son’s love.
And while Donnie’s voice may have faltered at the end, every person in that room knew:
Jimmy Swaggart finished it. From the other side.