One Solitary Life
He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He
grew up in still another village, where he worked in a carpenter shop
until he was thirty. Then for three years he was an itinerant preacher.
He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never had a family
or owned a house. He didn’t go to college. He never visited a big city.
He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where he was born.
He did none of the things one usually associates with greatness.
One Solitary Life . . .
He had no credentials but himself. He was only thirty-three when the
tide of public opinion turned against him. His friends ran away. He was
turned over to his enemies and went through the mockery of a trial. He
was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While he was dying, his
executioners gambled for his clothing, the only property he had on
earth. When he was dead, he was laid in a borrowed grave through the
pity of a friend.
One Solitary
Life (cont.)
One Solitary Life . . .
Nineteen centuries have come
and gone, and today he is the central figure of the human race and the
leader of mankind’s progress. All the armies that ever marched, all the
navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, all the
kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of
man on this earth as much as that One Solitary Life.
Author Unknown
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