No man is born with intolerance in his heart
No man is born with hate
But as he grows he learns all to well
That hatred is but fate
A seed is planted many times over
In many forms and all too great
But the farmer must be
The one who must see
How well that seed must grow
No man is born with evil nature
No man is born with sin
But the painter alone paints the canvas broad
And from their does hate begin
A carpenter must chisel away
The form of his grande design
Shaping the wood and carving what could
Become his source of hatred someday
But in the end you become
Whatever you've shaped by your own hand
But the truth of the matter is this
The sun still shines on the wicked man.