LOVE IS JUSTICE
THE WAY OF WOUNDS
He touched the leper tenderly,
So in His hands there came to be
Wide wounds that were not wrought with nails.
Alas, my hands are smooth and fair,
No wound is on them anywhere,
Nor any scarlet scar of nails.
His lips lay on the mouth of death,
God's healing dwelt within their breath,
Wherefore his lips grew pale with pain,
And no man shall that pain divine;
Alas, my lips are red with wine,
And they have scorned His draught of pain.
His feet were torn of stone and thorn,
Full slow He moved on roads forlorn,
But joyous hearts accompanied Him;
Alas, my feet are softly shod,
And on the road that leads to God,
They have not sought to move with Him.
And so all wounded by the way,
He came home at the close of day,
And angels met Him at the Gate.
Alas, His way I have not known—
The road forlorn, the wounding stone—
And no one waits me at the Gate.