He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman.

He grow up in still another village, where he worked in a carpenter shop until he was 30.

Then for 3 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 travelled 200 miles from the place he was born.

He did none of the things that one usually associates with greatness.

He has no credentials but himself.

He was only 33 when public opinion turned against him.

His friends ran away.

He was turned over to his enemies and went through a mockery of 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 in this world.

When he was dead, he was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.

Twenty centuries have come and gone, and today he is the central figure of the human race, the leader of humankind’s progress.

All the armies 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 the life of human race on earth

   as much as that

   One Solitary Life.

Anonymous