Writer, Poet, Social Commentator
I carved the cross that killed my Saviour
That Nazarene boy of Mary born
Rebel we thought he to the Law
Refused his claims as God’s Holy son.
I knew his height and what he weighed
And chipped and chipped the wood to fit
Had I known, oh what misery laid
A wider wood the world’s sins would sit.
Of blood and pain this daily chore
No special thought for this request
What skill I had, what Heaven saw
That I should carve Yahweh’s bequest.
If cursed be he hung on a tree
Oh lost soul that conceived thee
Oh wretched hand that carved thee
What curse will thus come to mee?
To think he died to save me still
Though all my sins he doth foresee
No curse No death, no judgment still
I whose hands have carved this tree.
I carved the cross on which my Saviour hung
That wooden cross that bore my sin
If chanced again to sing a song
Twould be that Christ died to set me free.