One solitary life
Here is a man who was born in a small town, the child of a peasant woman.
He grew up in another town. He worked in a carpenter shop silently until he was thirty. Then he worked for three years as a traveling preacher.
He never wrote a book. He never had a family. He never held an office. He never held a home. He never put his feet inside a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where he was born. He never did one thing that usually accompanies greatness. He had no credentials but himself.
While still a young man, the tide of public opinion turned against him and his friends ran away. One of them denied him. He went thru the mockery of a trial. He was nailed on a cross between two thieves. His guards gambled for the only piece of property he had while breathing his last, and that was a coat. When he was dead, he was laid on a borrowed grave.
Twenty centuries have passed and he is the center of the human race. I am not far within the mark when I say that all the armies that ever marched, and all the navies that ever were built, and all the kings that ever reigned, and all the presidents that ever were elected, all together have not affected the lives of men so, as has that ONE SOLITARY LIFE.