The Christmas Poem. One Solitary Life. No matter your spiritual inclination, or none, there is no arguing: There was a man He was born in an obscure village The child of a peasant woman He grew up in another obscure village He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty He was an itinerant preacher for three years And then the tide of public opinion turned against him He never wrote a book He never held an office He never went to college He never visited a big city He never travelled more than two hundred miles From the place where he was born He did none of the things That usually accompany greatness He had no credentials but himself He had nothing to do with this world Except the naked power of who he was When he was thirty three His friends ran away One of them denied him He was turned over to his enemies And went through the mockery of a trial He was nailed to a cross between two thieves His executioners gambled for the only piece of property he had on Earth While he was dying And that was his coat When he was dead He was laid in a borrowed grave Through the pity of a friend Twenty wide centuries have come and gone And today he is a central figure to the human race The leader of a column of progress And, Im within the mark when I say All the armies that have ever marched All the navies that have ever sailed All the parliaments that have ever sat And, All the kings that ever reigned Put together Have not affected the life of mankind upon this earth As powerfully as that one solitary life (~ James Allan Francis, 1926) Merry Christmastime
Posted on: Mon, 01 Dec 2014 04:43:30 +0000
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