Nothing In My Hands Poem by joses tirtabudi

I may be the cream of the crop, I could be the brass at the top. I could rise up, beyond ordinary's scope, where does it stop? Where does it stop?

I could have the biggest house, best car, flashy jewels, a hollywood star. I could be the biggest, richest, best-known near n' far. But none of that's gonna get me where you are.

I could give the poor all my wealth. I could spend my life giving others health. I could fill a shelf with books above a hearth. Or nuture one from birth.

I could give you everything, every penny, every minute, every dime. Still wouldn't make it if I gave you all my time. Wouldn't do if I brought you every friend of mine.

But why dream of the big when I can't grasp the little. In the end, what use is a title? How will I pass the crysis when I can't pass peace? Oh how brittle!

Coming to you with a head held high, when to you I don't even stay nigh! Taking for granted that I rise from each night. Never seeing what I actually bring inside.

Thinking I've got it all, but I don't know a thing at all. So here I am crying on the floor. God, I ain't brought you nothing at all!

I'm just a stuck-up ignorant creation, lost inside his own imagination, living inside my mind's illusions, victim of my pride's delusions

I come to you with my hands full, but it ain't nothing but bull, watch as in your sight it becomes null. Please touch my eyes, remove the wool.

Burn through my paper and wood, show me the silver and gold. Show me what really counts before I'm too old. You know what card's in my hand, I may as well fold.

Can't help but weep as I paw through ashes. All the achievements, reputation, and cash. Compared to what you gave, it will never match.

So tell me, why do i try to be, what I'll never ever be, when all you asked for is me?

Why do I heap to myself this futility? Stuck in the middle for an eternity, Thinking I'm some great personality.

Trying to be good in mine own eyes, but God, you see what my heart hides. You know that I'm scared, so now I confide.

Lord Jesus, I ain't brought you nothing. Lying here on the floor crying, watching my great acheivements crumbling.

I know you've said you'll take me as I am. But after falling and stuffing up all I can. I can't comprehend how you'll take me as I am.

Even if I bring you everything - nothing in my hands I bring.

Story behind the poem:
Written a while back, the question has rung over the ages as man tries to please God. What is it that God looks for? Gold? Human sacrifices? Lambs? Fruit? We try and bring things to please God, but all he ever wanted was us, because when you really consider it, we don't have anything worth bringing. We heap up our achievements, but at the end of the day, only some things will count. So often I run around doing things so that I'm accepted, when I really should just be putting him first. All those things I've been hassling myself to do aren't really worth anything at all. In the end, the things we did for others, the things we did for God, that's all that remains. Everything else is just ashes. Nothing in our hands we bring.
GZ