Oh, this is a story of every grandma’s in a Christian hut
Oh, I too have heard this.
When I start to tell you the story you will trace the man.

Winter knocked at every houses.
Sun half hidden, dark clouds made the days lazy.

Oh, a baby crying, no he’s not a baby.
He is not in a luxurious house, oh no facilities,
but his eyes rejoices with rare beauty,
oh a calm silence embraced the world.

Carrying water for his mother, fetched from well,
a man, oh a priest asked: who are you?,
Oh I’m this world.

Clouds began to pour rain,
guide book of him in this world sighing for life,
oh it was to a journey.

Land began to thirst for water, started preaching, for as he came for that.
Picked out the 12, but one was odd, oh don’t you know?- oh, you know that.

When cold air started to breeze, when shadows filled with destiny,
he became a doctor,
oh he became a teacher.

Giving out the last message too his blood and flesh,
he wept with the rainy pours outside the garden.

The time had came when trees began to dry,
A thirst for saviour, beloved given him.

Mocked, for what he doesn’t do.
No, he’s not a sinner.

Knees became weakened, steeped to ground, hailed to cross.
With a sigh, he took the world in his cross, cross became a symbol to believe.
Raised from tomb, living still they say and so the story ended, but it continues…