One Solitary Life
He was born in an obscure village, the child of a simple 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. He never owned a home. He never set foot inside a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place He was born, and where he did go he usually walked.
He never wrote a book. He never held political office. He did none of the things we usually associate with greatness.
While He was still a young man, the tide of popular opinion turned against Him. His friends deserted Him. 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 the only piece of property He had in this world - and that was His robe. His purple robe.
When He was dead, He was taken down and laid in a borrowed grave provided by compassionate friends.
Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure for much of the human race, the leader in the column of human progress. All the armies that ever marched, and 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 so powerfully as this one solitary life.
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