There are many people who have lived and died
But only One who lived to die
And he was a carpenter’s son
He often used his hands to work
To heal, to love
Could see the end before it had even begun
A man who was called when there was fixing to be done
Be it of wood or of stone
But especially flesh and blood
“I go and prepare a place for you,” I do recall him saying
For he plans futures for those who were destined to have none
A builder of futures?
How can that be?
What sort of hands has he?
Friend, they are hands of power and laughter and hope
Hands his mother held throughout his youth
And perhaps in dreams following his parting
There are many people with two hands by their sides
But only One with nail markings
Only One who was crucified
In order the world to free
And he was a carpenter’s son
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