So what does it have to do with me,

this poverty child?
this homeless birth in a busy town?
these shepherds searching for angel-announced hope?
this little boy wandering among the shavings of newly planed wood?
these dirty feet from dusty paths of Middle Eastern villages?

What does it have to do with me,

this unremarkable vagabond?
this traveler with his motley pack of men?
these weird sayings and mysterious stories?
this healer man with crowds of broken citizens?
these jealous leaders plotting evil?
confusing predictions about a future unclear?
these hungry crowds fed by a little boy’s lunch?
prostitutes and drunkards made to feel welcome?
these courageous declarations while standing in the synagogue?

What does it have to do with me,

this palm branch carpet processional?
this private dinner in a rented room?
this basin unused with proud men at the table?
this dark garden echoing with painful prayer?
these three asleep, with a friend in torment?
this kiss of death with soldiers as witnesses?
these trumped-up charges by jealous men?
this bruised and bloody back?
this crown of thorns with flowers removed?
this Roman ruler washing his hands?

What does it have to do with me,

this cross dragged outside of the city?
this dirty, bloody man nailed to a tree?
these criminal companions hung on either side?
soldiers gambling for the clothes of the accused?
sword to the side to finish him off?
this scarred corpse placed in a borrowed crypt?
these women surprised at the body gone?

What does it have to do with me,

this story so removed, so long ago?
this one wise and suffering man?
Palestine graced, hope rejected?

What does it have to do with me?

This story is my story, each chapter is for me. This unattractive man of humble beginning and ignominious end is the Hope of the Universe. Mercy is what it has to do with me; it is what the sin struggle of my heart requires.

 

taken fromĀ Whiter than Snow by Paul David Tripp

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