ONE SOLITARY LIFE

He (Jesus) 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.

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.

Twenty 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 Earth

As much as that

One Solitary Life.

—Dr James Allen Francis