One Solitary Life

He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village. He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty and then for three years was an intinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never owned a home. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where he was born. He never did one of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but himself.

Although he walked the land over, curing the sick, giving sight to the blind, healing the lame, and raising people from the dead, the top established religious leaders turned against him. His friends ran away. He was turned over to enemies. He was spat upon, flogged, and ridiculed. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While he was dying, the executioners gambled for the only piece of property he had on earth, and that was his robe. When he was dead, he was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.

Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone, and today he is the central Figure of the human race and the Leader of the column of progress.

All the armies that ever marched, and all the navies that were ever built, and all the parliaments that ever sat, and all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of man upon this earth as has that One Solitary Life.

-Source Unknown

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