Worker of wood, this Mary's son
Is he creator, the holy one?
Sent by the Father, with us to stand,
Calling us brother, taking our hand?

Who is this one with this passionate plea
Emphatically joining with you and with me?
Calling himself "Son of Man," a name of his own
How can he do this, who could have known?

Does he not know
Has he not heard
Can he not see
The creature's been damaged
The creature's not free

All turns to dross
In this poor creature's hands
Life's luster fades
Reflections distorted
Emerging life discounted
And quickly aborted

Diamonds to ashes
Wealth into war
Health into sickness
Truth is no more

The spectrum's abolished
So color me white
Or color me black
It matters not which one is true
For tomorrow, you see, both will be blue

Adding, subtracting, count on no more,
One plus one used to be two,
But now they say that its four
The answer is two? Or maybe its seven?
It matters not, it could be eleven

He knew all of this
He saw first and the last
He held all together
Both now and the past

He too holds the future
His right arm secure
Yes, he holds things together
Of that we are sure

Hear then, the answer
To what, who this Man
He's this world's creator
Both God and a man

--Larry V. Newman