He was born in an obscure village.
He grew up in another village where he worked in the carpenter shop until he was thirty.
Then for three years He was an itinerate preacher.
He never wrote a book. He never held an office.
He never had a family. He never owned a home. He never went to college.
He never visited a big city. He never travelled 200 miles from where he was born.
He did none of those things that you and I normally associate with greatness.
He had no credentials but Himself.
He was only thirty three years of age when the tide of public opinion turned against Him.
His friends ran away, He was turned over to His enemies, He went through a mockery of a trial, and finally was nailed to a cross in between two thieves.
And whilst He was dying, His executioners gambled for his clothing, the only property He had on earth.
When He was dead they laid Him in a borrowed tomb, through the pity of a friend.
Nineteen centuries have come and gone, and still today He is the central figure of the human race, the leader of mankind’s progress.
All the armies that have ever marched, all the navies that have ever sailed, all the parliaments that have ever sat, and all the kings that have ever reigned put together, have not affected the life of man on this planet so much as that one solitary life.
James Allan Francis (1864–1928)