He was born on a winter morn,
On the back streets of a town.
With naught but rags to keep Him warm,
In a stable He lay down.

He grew up in a foreign land,
A child of sorrow and strife.
Afflicted in the eyes of most,
Who were witness to his life.

And when His parents took Him home,
To the country of His birth,
He would find that His own people,
Reckoned Him of little worth.

So He became a laborer,
Taking on His father's trade.
And there He worked for many years,
To build the life that He made.

But soon that life came to an end,
When His father passed away.
He left his home and family,
To seek a different way.

A way that took Him down a path,
That His family deemed unwise.
A road that only He could walk,
That would lead to His demise.

Many saw Him as a prophet,
Others just thought He was odd.
But a handful of disciples,
Claimed He was the Son of God.

Some saw Him perform miracles,
Claimed He even raised the dead.
They said He fed five thousand mouths,
With a single loaf of bread.

But there were some who did conspire,
To bring His life to an end.
And when they finally made their move,
He was betrayed by a friend.

So they made him an example,
Crucified for all to see.
And through their fear and jealousy,
They fulfilled a prophesy.

Thus events were set in motion,
And our history is rife,
With the teachings and influence,
Of that very special life.

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