A certain gentleman was a member of the Presbyterian Church. His little boy was sick. When he went home, his wife was weeping, and she said, “Our boy is dying; he has had a change for the worse. I wish you would go in and see him.” The father went into the room and placed his hand upon the brow of the dying boy, and the cold, damp sweat was gathering there: the icy hand of death was feeling for the chords of life.
“Do you know, my boy, that you are dying?” asked the father. “Am I? Is this death? Do you really think I am dying?” “Yes, my son, your end on earth is near.” “And will I be with Jesus tonight?” “Yes, you will be with the Savior.” “Father, don’t you weep, for when I get there, I will go straight to Jesus and tell Him that you have been trying all your life to lead me to Him.” So death was robbed of half his terror, by those words of the Christian child.—MOODY.
