Psalm 51: What Does It have to Do with Me?

So what does it have to do with me, this poverty child? What does it have to do with me, this homeless birth in a busy town? What does it have to do with me, these shepherds searching for angel-announced hope? What does it have to do with me, this little boy wandering among the shavings of newly-planed wood? What does it have to do with me, these dirty feet from dusty paths of middle-eastern villages? What does it have to do with me, this unremarkable vagabond? What does it have to me, this traveler with his motley pack of men? What does it have to do with me, these weird sayings and mysterious stories? What does it have to do with me, this healer man with crowds of broken citizens? What does it have to do with me, these jealous leaders plotting evil? What does it have to do with me, confusing predictions about a future unclear? What does it have to do with me, these hungry crowds fed by a little boy's lunch? What does it have to do with me, prostitutes and drunkards made to feel welcome? What does it have to do with me, these courageous declarations while standing in the synagogue? What does it have to do with me, this palm branch carpet processional? What does it have to do with me, this private dinner in a rented room? What does it have to do with me, this basin unused with proud men at the table? What does it have to do with me, this dark garden echoing with painful prayer? What does it have to do with me, these three asleep, with a friend in torment? What does it have to do with me, this kiss of death with soldiers as witnesses? What does it have to do with me, these trumped-up charges by jealous men? What does it have to do with me, this bruised and bloody back? What does it have to do with me, this crown of thorns with flowers removed? What does it have to do with me, this Roman ruler washing his hands? What does it have to do with me, this cross dragged outside of the city? What does it have to do with me, this dirty, bloody man nailed to a tree? What does it have to do with me, these criminal companions hung on either side? What does it have to do with me, soldiers gambling for the accused clothes? What does it have to do with me, sword to the side to finish him off? What does it have to do with me, this scarred corpse placed in a borrowed crypt? What does it have to do with me, these women surprised at the body gone? What does it have to do with me, this story so removed, so long ago? What does it have to do with me, this one wise and suffering man? What does it have to do with me, 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 my sin requires.