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Written on a Card

(to the tune: “What Child is This?”)

What child is this, who laid to rest

on Mary’s breast is sleeping?

The purity of maturity

is one that’s quick and fleeting.

If I am Christ the King

to this world born in apathy;

who am I becoming

and therefore who is He?

Tender and soft were my first born steps,

the virgin mother’s hand held firm.

Now I tread on glass and tacks,

to the whore who I’ve known since birth.

This is my identity;

Up to my neck in quiet insecurity;

Can I be sure of anything,

O’ Babe, O’ Son of Mary?

Teacher I am left to dry,

Your apprentice writes in his mind again.

Thy faithfulness will bring me nigh,

But who’ve I have been since then?

My Un-faithful ways

Are chaff and must be burned away;

But once the fire has done the glaze

What there will remain?

Two end stanzas:

(don’t fit the line requirements)

Savior, O’ coming King,

Thou knowest all things;

Will I lose my own integrity

For the sake of losing me?

Savior, O’ coming king,

Thou knowest all things;

Who am I becoming!



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