One Solitary Life

I was reading a book I read millions of centuries ago when I found a piece of paper inserted into it by its previous borrower. If there is one thing I am generous about, it would be my books. I always encouraged, coerced and begged my friends to read my collections of books. It always feels good to talk about books and its author.

Going back about that piece of paper inserted in my book. I think it was left there by accident or it was some sort of a Thank-You note. For whatever reasons and since it’s a Sunday, I decided I’ll publish it here and say “Thank you, too.” to its owner. Here goes...



He was born in an obscure village.
He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty.
He then became an itinerant preacher.
He never held an office.
He never had a family or owned a house.
He didn’t go to college.
He had no credentials but himself.
He was only thirty-three when the public 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.
He was laid in a borrowed grave.

Nineteen centuries have come and gone,
and today he is the central figure of the human race.
All the armies that ever marched,
all the navies that ever sailed,
all the parliaments that ever sat,
and all the kings that ever reigned
have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that
ONE SOLITARY LIFE.