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 Wwote A Book.
He Never Held An Office.
He Didn't Even 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.
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 Nacies 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.
