When I was young, I wondered, Jesus,
Why you never chose a life of prestige—
You could have worn a healer’s robe,
For you made the lame walk, the sick whole, and the dead rise.
Yet, you chose the carpenter’s trade,
Building with wood instead of wealth,
Holding nails before they ever held you.
When I was a teen, I wondered why you never chased wealth,
Never stored up gold and silver
To give more, like generous men of power.
Then maybe, as a child, I would have said,
"I want to be like Jesus—rich and giving,
The kindest celebrity of all."
I wondered why you weren’t born in a palace,
Crowned with glory from the start.
Then I could have said,
"I want to be like Jesus,
Famous since birth."
But instead, you came from Judah,
Small, forgotten, overlooked—
"By no means least among the rulers."
When I became an adult, I wondered why you never had a love story,
Written in the stars, a perfect romance—
So I could say,
"I want to be like Jesus,
Who found love at the right time."
Now, I wonder how it felt to wander for forty nights,
Hungry, tired, alone—
Yet never breaking, never giving in.
Could I be like you, Jesus,
When temptation whispers my name?
I wonder how you sat with sinners,
Ate with the broken,
Touched the hands I might turn away from.
Would I even meet their eyes?
Would I have the courage to pray for them?
And I wonder, Jesus,
How it felt to carry that cross—
The weight of my shame on your shoulders,
The sting of rejection,
The whispers that you were nothing.
Did you feel unseen? Unloved?
And now I ask myself—
Can I be like Jesus?
In a world that craves more—
More wealth, more fame, more fleeting thrills,
Where worth is measured by what is seen,
What is owned, what is praised—
Will I dare to let go?
To lay down my flesh, my selfish ways,
My doubt, my jealousy, my fear—
In a time that glorifies the self,
Where comfort is king,
And risk for Christ is rare.
Who still walks the narrow road?
Who still carries the weight of the cross,
Unafraid to lose, unafraid to lack?
When the world sings of pleasure,
Of gold stored and memories made,
Of a life without bruises, without pain—
Will I choose the scars of Christ?
And now I ask myself—
Would I be like Jesus?
Would I draw closer?
Perhaps not even close, not even once.
And yet I wonder why you still love me.
