On the west front lay a 17-year-old boy a few days before Christmas, 1915. He had voluntarily enlisted under the flag of Great Britain, and was yearning to storm forward in the ranks of his comrades—forward to victory. And he had been in the front rank. Now he lay wounded and bleeding on the battlefield.
The battle was over; the stars shone, and he was thinking: Wonder, if I shall lie here and die!
Memories stormed upon him. His mother had said: "God be always with you, my lad!" and the old minister had said: "Remember there is always a window open upward!"
Upward—upward to God! Was it not as though the twinkling stars were smiling at him—calling him, as it were?
Yes, they summoned him upward.
O, how that wound pained him! Wonder if the ambulance isn't coming soon? He could hear the cries of the other wounded; perhaps that was when they were lifted up from the ground. Would no one find him? He could not stir, could not call—could only gaze at the distant stars.
Was there room for him up there? Yes, for he was sure death was approaching. "Mother," he whispered, "mother—O God—take my soul—now, just before Christmas—for the sake of Jesus Christ!"
The angels came, and they carried him to heaven. His prayer had been heard up there. His child's soul was carried upward to God.
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When the famous French preacher, Adolphe Monod, was asked what had been the cause of his greatest gratitude, he said: "I thank God that He hath given me the faith of a little child."