The Way of the World
The hands of the King are soft and fair
They never knew labor’s strain
The hands of the Robber redly wear
The bloody brand of Cain.
But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred
With the scars of toil and pain.
The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands
As white as a kings might be.
Barrabas with wrists unfettered stands
For the world has made him free.
But Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,
O Christ, on Calvary.