Young and ra­di­ant, He is stand­ing,
As He stood at Sa­lem’s shrine;
Just a lad, a lad for­ev­er,
With a look and grace di­vine!
Tell me, how it is ye sought Me?
Wist ye not My Fa­ther’s plan?
I must be about His bu­si­ness,
Would I be a Son of Man.

I can see Him hum­bly kneel­ing,
As He knelt up­on the hill;
While the wa­ters hushed their mu­sic,
And the night grew bright and still:
Brothers, tell Me why ye sought Me?
Wist ye not My Fa­ther’s plan?
He must grow in grace and wis­dom,
Who would be a Son of Man.

Like a flame His soul is strik­ing
In His wrath at greed and shame;
Ye have made a den of rob­bers
Of the tem­ple to His name;
Know ye not His eq­ual justice?
Wist ye not My Fa­ther’s plan?
He must bathe His sword in Hea­ven
Who would be a Son of Man.

I can see Him dy­ing, lov­ing
Unto death on Cal­va­ry;
His dear hands still plead­ing, pray­ing,
Worn and torn for you and me!
Brothers, will ye scorn and leave Me?
Wist ye not My Fa­ther’s plan?
He must wear a crown of sor­row
Who would be a Son of Man.