Taken from The Real Jesus and Other Sermons, by James Allan Francis. Philadelphia
A young man was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He worked in a carpenter shop until he was 30, and then he was an itinerant preacher for three years. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never owned a home. He never had a family. He never went to college. He never put his foot in a big city. He never travelled more than 200 miles from the place he was born. He never did one of the things that usually accompany greatness.
While he was still a young man, the tide of public opinion turned against him. His friends deserted him. He was turned over to his enemies. He went through the mockery of a trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While he was dying, his executioners gambled for the only piece of property he had on earth, and that was his coat. 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 his is still the central figure of the human race. 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 like the life of one man, Jesus Christ.
