One Solitary Life By James A. Francis
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, and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher.
He never wrote a book.
He never held an office.
He never had a family.
He never owned a house.
He never went 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.
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that have ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on this earth as much as that one solitary life.
Merry Christmas from my family, to yours.