The son of a carpenter hung on a tree,
Condemned to the wood by a hateful decree.
He died on the cross that a woodworker made,
Brought low by the tools of His father’s own trade.
The Son of the Holy One died on the earth,
Brought low on the globe He had known from its birth.
The will of His Father had crafted the place
Where Jesus now perished in shame and disgrace.
The children of righteousness, saved by His life,
We follow His pattern through trouble and strife.
We die to ourselves as our Father has said,
Brought low by His will till we rise from the dead.