WHAT IS IT TO ME
What is it to me
that angels proclaim
the divine baby born,
eternal His fame?
What is it to me
of a foreordained time,
a prophesied place,
of wonder sublime?
What is it to me
this talk of the star,
of shepherds and stables,
and wise men afar?
What is it to me
to focus my gaze
on that stable so bare
where the Christ child lays?
What is it to me
that water becomes wine,
that lepers are healed,
by a Son divine?
What is it to me
to walk on the sea,
the blind to have sight,
and for death to flee?
What is it to me
that He’s in the garden alone
to bear unbearable weight,
for my sins to atone?
What is it to me
that my guilt and pain
He would take upon Him
so I could be born again?
What is it to me
that alone He withstood
the devil’s evil attacks
as only He could?
What is it to me
that He be taken and tried
by unjust men
to be crucified?
What is it to me
that into Him spikes were driven,
hung by men among thieves
ignorant of what He had given?
What is it to me
that in a tomb He was laid
while to the prison He fled
bringing hope to those afraid?
What is it to me
that on that Sunday morn
the tomb was found empty,
the fear of death was shorn?
What is it to me
that death has no sting,
the grave yields no power,
that he was crowned King?
What is it to me
that He now stands supreme
as King of Kings,
worthy of all esteem?
What is it to me
that He should even come,
for I have no need
to which I’d succumb?
What is it to me
whose life is mine,
suited to fit my needs,
no time for the divine?
But what is it to me
when the baubles fade
and all I have loved
I discover decayed?
What is it to me
when all that I sought,
when all I desired
has come to naught?
Then when I am humbled
and faced with my plight,
with nowhere else to turn,
when my heart becomes contrite;
when I face my shallow life
and realize more was meant for me,
then it all becomes so clear
so easy for me to see.
But will it be too late,
will my regret suffice?
Is there yet hope for me,
can I ever pay the price?
If only I had seen sooner
what is so plain to see now.
If only I had followed Him
and offered Him my vow.
But now is where I am
though late it seems to be.
I’ll gladly confess His name
and humbly bend my knee.
In hope I look upward
wondering if He would care.
In that moment of miniscule faith
I realize He was always there.
His sweet tender voice
whispers to my heart.
He has already paid my price
and now just wants my part.
All He asks of me
is to follow him and obey His law.
Then His blood can wash me clean
and I’ll eagerly bow in humble awe.
For now the risen Lord
is the only one I can see.
Indeed He is the only way.
NOW, He means everything to me.
The writing of this poem was perhaps the most amazing experience I’ve ever had with a poem. I was sitting in a funeral when it happened. The speaker was discussing the great gifts given by the life and atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ. As I observed the people around me, it was painfully obvious that many had absolutely no interest in Jesus Christ or anything related to Him. As I was pondering that thought, words began flowing into my mind. I grabbed a program and began writing as fast as I could. It was like taking dictation. I knew they weren’t my words. I have great respect for this poem because I know that I was not the author.