The Question

(Draft 1. Written November 9th-10th.)

There’s this thing that the world often tries to tell me;

Day after day I stare in the face

Of a culture that truly believes

That my worth is the size of my waist.

And I know that You've told me the truth before,

So I close my eyes and remember the scene

You showed me yesterday, and I see Your

Face, the face of a human being.

I see the uncreated God becoming a man,

I see Your eyes and Your hair and Your smile

And the tiny fingernails on Your tiny hands;

This shouldn't have happened. It’s wild

That You would become what You made me to be,

That You’d grow up and live a human life –

Or, wilder still, that You’d die on a tree

When You are the One Who should never die.

And as I see these pictures in my mind

I know they speak the truth, but the fact is

Those pictures belong to days I’ve left behind

And yesterday’s joy isn’t always today’s bliss.

You made me desiring to know I have value,

But I have to be told that, and pop culture won’t

Tell me anything good about myself. All the while You

Are waiting for me to come to You, but I don’t

Because I forget that You made me need

To be told because You love telling me about

The worth You placed inside of me,

But when I forget I start to doubt.

So I once again come to the secret place,

I open my heart and I open Your word

And as I lean into You and I feel Your embrace

I once again ask, “Daddy…what am I worth?”