He was born in an obscure village, the Child of a peasant woman. He
grew up in another village, where He worked in a carpenter's 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 home. 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 that usually accompany 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. One of them denied Him. 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 garments, 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. 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 mankind on this
earth as much as that...
One Solitary Life.