A Mother’s Arms

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A sorrowing mother, bending over her dying child, was trying to soothe it by talking about heaven. She spoke of the glory there, of the brightness shed around, of the shining countenances of the Holy Angels; but presently a little voice stopped her, saying, “I should not like to be there, mother, for the light hurts my eyes.” Then she changed her word picture, and spoke of the songs above, of the harpers harping with their harps, of the voice as the voices of many waters, of the new song which they sang before the Throne; but the child said, “Mother, I cannot bear any noise.” Grieved and disappointed at her failure to speak words of comfort, she took the little one from its bed of pain, and enfolded it in her arms with all the tenderness of a mother’s love. Then, as the little sufferer lay there, near to all it loved best in the world, conscious only as its life ebbed away of the nearness of love and care, the whisper came, “Mother, if Heaven is like this, may Jesus take me there!”

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