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He was born in an obscure village,
a child of a peasant woman.
He grew up in another obscure village
where he worked in a carpenter shop
until he was thirty.
Then for three years
he was an itinerant preacher.
He never had a family.
Or owned a home.
He never set foot inside a big city.
He never traveled two hundred miles
from the place he was born.
He never wrote a book
or held an office.
He did none of the things
that usually accompany greatness.
While he was still a young man,
the tide of popular opinion
turned against him.
He was turned over to his enemies.
He went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed to a cross
between two thieves.
While he was dying
his executioners gambled
for the only piece of property he had,
his coat.
When he was dead,
he was taken down
and laid in a borrowed grave.
Nineteen centuries have come and gone
and today he is still the central figure
for much of the human race.
All the armies that ever marched,
all the navies that ever sailed,
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 powerfully as this
One Solitary Life.
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