He 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 didn't go to college.
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.
Nineteen 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.
(Author Unknown)
(Author Unknown)
