Kings Saul, David and Solomon: In Their Own Words

In the ancient land of Israel, three kings rose to power, their reigns shaping the destiny of a nation and echoing through the corridors of time. Each of them was chosen by God, but each carried the burden of their own imperfections. Saul, David, and Solomon—the first three kings of Israel—lived lives that were as brilliant as they were tragic. Their stories are woven with glory, wisdom, betrayal, and the haunting whispers of failure. In their reigns, we find the very essence of human striving: the pursuit of greatness, the fragility of the human heart, and the complex dance between divine purpose and personal choice.

This is not merely a historical recount of rulers; this is a journey into the hearts of kings who, for all their splendor, were as human as we are. Through the eyes of Saul, we see the rise of a reluctant king, chosen not for his strength but for his humble beginnings and the potential of what he could become. We follow his fall from grace, witnessing the bitter seeds of pride and jealousy that turned his heart cold. From David, we learn of a shepherd’s heart, untainted by the world’s lust for power, yet still vulnerable to its snares. His faith in God is unwavering, even as the weight of sin and betrayal leaves scars that time cannot erase. Solomon, the wisest of men, offers us profound insights into the human condition—his wisdom unmatched, yet his heart swayed by the very temptations he once sought to master.

This memoir is not simply the retelling of history; it is the reflection of men who wore crowns and carried thorns. It is a story of power and pride, of love and loss, and of the very human struggle to reconcile divine calling with the fallibility of the flesh. From the humble beginnings of Saul in the fields of Benjamin to the grandeur of Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem, the path of these kings is paved with triumphs and tragedies, each one echoing the eternal conflict between the heart’s deepest desires and God’s unwavering will.

As you journey through these pages, you will hear the voices of these kings, raw and unfiltered, recounting the struggles that led them to greatness and the choices that led them to ruin. The story of Israel’s first kings is the story of us all—the rise and fall of men whose lives still teach us lessons about power, faith, and the price of glory.

Sample

King Saul

I was born in the shadow of a village,
Where the earth whispered not of kings,
But of simple lives and quiet lands.
My father, Kish, a man of wealth,
Yet not of power, not of glory.
In his house, I grew,
Unnoticed, a youth amidst the dust.

Among the children of Benjamin,
I was a stranger to their laughter,
Their voices like the call of birds—
I, standing apart, unsure, alone.
The boys ran in the fields,
Chasing the wind,
I stood still, watching,
Wondering what destiny whispered in the air.

I knew of my father’s standing,
But the walls of his house did not speak of kings.
I was born to be no more than this:
A shepherd, a farmer,
Bound to the land,
The weight of expectation heavy on my heart.

I remember the days when I would walk,
On paths forgotten by time,
Under skies stretched wide with nothing,
My thoughts my only company.
The future was an unspoken word—
What could I be but this?
Nothing more than a shadow,
Passing by unnoticed.

But sometimes, on nights filled with stars,
I would look up and wonder,
Is this all there is for me?
Is this the end of my tale?
Will I be just another face,
Fading into the dust of forgotten stories?

I saw in the eyes of others,
Something that I longed to grasp—
Ambition, pride, the fire of a purpose
That burned within their veins.
But my own heart was cold,
Quiet like the river’s flow,
Uncertain of where it would end.

The days passed, one after another,
Until the call came—unexpected,
The message from the prophet,
The anointing oil in his hand.
I was nothing, and yet I was chosen—
The weight of the crown I did not ask for,
But there it was, pressed upon my brow.

I had no knowledge of kingship,
No skill with the sword,
No command over men.
I was a simple son of Kish—
A name that carried little weight
In the ears of those who had known true glory.
And yet, on that day,
I was set apart.

In the quiet of the fields,
I never imagined this.
No dreams had prepared me for the crown,
The title, the burden of a nation.
I was no hero in the making,
Only a boy with a heart full of questions,
A soul too young to bear such a load.

And yet, the prophet’s hand on my head
Changed everything.
The future unfurled like a storm,
Sweeping me away,
Forcing me to stand taller
Than I ever thought I could.

Was it fate or the will of God
That pulled me from the shadows of my father’s house?
Was I truly meant to lead?
Or was I simply a vessel
For a destiny I could not understand?

At times, I wish I could have remained
A simple son of Benjamin,
With nothing more than the earth beneath my feet,
And the quiet hum of life’s simplicity.
But in the depth of my soul,
I felt the stirring—
Something greater was coming,
And I was but the vessel,
Bound to the call of a king.

I was not born with the knowledge of kingship. The earth beneath my feet was always soft, familiar, gentle—no throne, no crown, no throne room awaited me. I was born in the quiet of a village, far removed from the courts of power or the whispers of prophecy. My name was Saul, a child of Kish, from the tribe of Benjamin, and in that village, the only destiny anyone could imagine for me was that of a simple life—farming, tending flocks, building a home in the quiet, dust-covered valleys of my father’s lands. I did not even imagine anything different. There were no voices in my heart calling me toward something greater.

Growing up among the children of Benjamin was an act of quiet separation. My peers, their laughter rang out loud and bright, echoing through the fields, but I? I stood in silence, sometimes watching them run as though their feet could outrun the wind. I walked at the edges of the games they played, the games I did not understand—chasing not the fleeting freedom of youth, but instead that gnawing, deep emptiness, a feeling of longing without knowing what it was for. I could not say what it was, but it always tugged at me. Something larger, something beyond the simple life my father set before me.

It is a strange thing to grow up with the weight of expectations placed upon you. Kish was not a great man by the standards of kings, nor was he a man of quiet submission. He had wealth, yes, and the kind of status that commanded respect, but there were no crowns placed on his head. The life he led was one of stability—a farmer’s life, a shepherd’s life. I have often wondered if my childhood was shaped by the hollow weight of an expectation not only set by others but by myself. Was I not already destined for something more? Why else would I stand, watching the others run with abandon, while I had the distinct feeling that my feet were not meant for such a simple, grounded life?

And yet, even as I felt the tug of something more, I could not imagine what it would be. I had not the courage to dare more, and so, I kept quiet, played the part I had been given. There was something in me—something restless, maybe even angry—that would not settle for mediocrity. But what could I be? What could a son of Benjamin become? My name, my face, did not yet carry the weight of a future—no kingdom lay in front of me, only the earth I walked on and the grain of my father’s hands.

As a young man, I helped my father, just as every son must. We tended the flocks, carried the heavy burdens, and kept the hearth lit. There were moments when I imagined I would live my whole life in the quiet and familiar—no greater ambition than to care for the fields, watch the seasons change, and live a life free of disturbance. It was only in those moments, under the vast sky, that I would allow my mind to wander. But even then, even in my solitude, my mind never entirely found peace. There was a whisper in the wind, in the way the trees bowed with the storms, in the crack of thunder that sounded like the voice of something beyond. What was it calling to me? What was it that stirred my heart?

I had no answers. Only questions.

And then came the day when everything shifted, when my life—as ordinary as it had been—began to unravel with a suddenness that was like being swept into a storm. I was in the fields, standing in the hum of the midday sun, when the call came. It was from Samuel, the prophet—a man whose words were as sharp as any sword. His name carried weight, not like the weight of a simple life but the weight of divine purpose. And then—then he said it. He came to me, and with a voice thick with reverence and something else—something that might have been pity or maybe power—he anointed me with oil.

“You will be the king of Israel.”

The words struck me like a thunderclap, rippling through my chest, through my soul. I was not prepared for them. I had not been waiting for them. How could I? I had been merely a son, a shepherd—one whose dreams did not stretch beyond the horizon, whose thoughts never strayed too far from the present moment. But now, with these words, my destiny had been redefined in an instant.

Samuel’s hands, heavy with the weight of their task, placed the oil upon my head. The scent of it lingered in my hair, and with it came a strange sense of power and dread. How could I, a mere son of Benjamin, a humble shepherd boy, stand as the chosen one? The king? Was I even fit for such a mantle? Did I have the heart of a king, the mind of a ruler, the courage to lead an entire people?

I did not know.

Even now, as I write these words, I still do not know. What am I? Who am I to lead the people of Israel? What qualifications do I have to stand before them, to face their fears, to carry the weight of their lives on my shoulders? The anointing should have felt like a crown. But instead, it felt like a weight—a weight I did not know how to bear.

Samuel told me of God’s will. That the nation of Israel, the people chosen by God, had cried out for a king. They wanted a king like the nations around them—a king to lead them, to fight for them, to stand tall in battle. They wanted someone to give them a future, a vision that they could grasp. And so, Samuel anointed me. I was to be that king, the one who would reign over Israel. But I, Saul, did not feel like a king. I felt small, insignificant, as though the oil that had been poured upon my head might slip away, as though I might slip away with it, lost to the weight of this impossible calling.

I remember walking away from that moment, my steps uncertain, my heart filled with questions. Was this God’s will, or was I simply a vessel in a story far bigger than I could understand?

And still, the question echoes in my heart: am I ready to be the king of Israel? Or am I simply the one who will bear the name? The title? The burden?

Only time will tell. But for now, I walk the earth as the chosen one, the anointed king. And all I can do is move forward, unsure of what lies ahead.