In one of the large cities of this continent, some earnest hearted Christians are in the habit of collecting little children together at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, to tell them about Jesus; and through the truth taught in this way, hundreds of dear little ones have been brought to the knowledge of Jesus.
I want to tell you of one dear little boy who in this way was brought to Christ. He had a drunken father, for whom he often prayed; and one day as he knelt and poured out his heart in prayer to God for his conversion, who should come in but the father! He took him by the collar, pulled him up from his knees, and said,
“Let me hear no more of such praying, let me never catch you on your knees, praying like that again.” The boy looked up, and said,
“O, dear papa, I love you very much, and I love mamma, too; but I love that dear Jesus who died for me, better still, and I cannot help praying to Him; but I will not pray in the house as you do not wish it.”
And so that dear child, away among the trees of the garden, communed with his heavenly Father, and prayed fervently for the conversion of his father and mother, and often was he kept without food because he loved that blessed Saviour who had become so dear to his soul.
At length he became ill; and as he lay upon his dying bed, he called his mother and said,
“Dear Mamma, I am going away from this cold, cold room to my blessed home, where there shall be no night, and no need of a candle. I shall not be long down here. I am going to have all my tears wiped away, and be forever with the Lord; and I should like to see my dear papa once more before I go.”
She sent for her husband, (he was in a saloon,) and when he came in, he rested his elbow upon the mantel-piece, and looked vacantly over at his dying child.
“Do come near the bed, dear papa,” the little fellow said. He came over and bending his head down, said,
“So you are dying, my child.” “O no, papa, not dying, but I am going to my blessed; blessed home above, where we shall ‘die no more.’ Will you help me to sing that sweet hymn, papa,”
“I am going home to die no more.” “I cannot, I do not know it,” the father said.
“Will you join in the chorus?” He promised to try; and there stood the father and mother weeping bitterly, and the dear child comforting them.
“Do not cry for me, I am going home to that blessed place where tears shall be all wiped away.” And then, raising his sweet voice he sang—
We go the way that leads to God,
The path that saints have ever trod;
So let us leave this sinful shore,
For realms where we shall die no more.
The ways of God are ways of bliss,
And all His paths are happiness;
Then weeping souls, your grief give o’er,
We’re going home to weep no more.
Come, sinner, come, O come along,
And join our happy pilgrim throng;
Farewell, vain world and all your store,
We’re going home to die no more.
The father and mother promised to give their hearts to the same Saviour whom he loved, and go where they should die no more.
And, dear little children, may that precious Saviour be yours, too; so that when death comes, you may be able to go home to that blessed place where we shall DIE, NO MORE.”
ML 05/19/1940