The Clasp of His Mother’s Hand

A Christian mother died with the hand of her little son clasped in her own. Years passed, and the boy grew to manhood, reckless and abandoned in character. The memory of his mother’s prayers, and of the lessons he had learned at her side, seemed to have faded away. From one excess of wickedness into another he plunged until his cup of iniquity seemed full. Then, through the mercy of God, he was converted. Speaking of his life of sin, he said that hardened as he seemed, and indifferent to all things sacred, there never was a time when, tempted to sin, that he did not feel the clasp of his dying mother’s hand, drawing him from the paths of sin to the ways of holiness, with a force which he found it hard to resist. That mother, though dead, was yet speaking to her boy. Soldiers! with praying mothers, think of their prayers now. Some of you have mothers in heaven; tears often fill your eyes in the trenches when you think of what she did for you before she died. If you are killed in battle, will you meet your mother in heaven? Think of the cradle song she used to sing: ―
“There’s a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky;
A Friend who never changes―
Whose love can never die.”
Do you know this Friend?