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 Fly, messengers that find no rest Save in such toil as makes man blest! Your home is God's immensity; We hold you but at His behest.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

The hands of the King are soft and fair They never knew labor's strain The hands of the Robber redly wear The bloody brand of Cain. But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred With the scars of toil and pain.

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands As white as a kings might be. Barrabas with wrists unfettered stands For the world has made him free. But Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn, O Christ, on Calvary.

AVE MARIA

Lady, thy soldier I would be, This day I choose thy shield, And go, thrice-armored for the fight, Forth to the world's wide field.