I remember a few years ago, a little child died, and just before his soul went home he asked his father to lift him up, and the father put his hand under the head of the child and raised it up. But the child only said, "That is not enough; that is not what I want; lift me right up." The child was wasted all to skin and bones, but still his father complied, and lifted the dying child out of his bed. But the little fellow kept whispering, fainter and fainter, "Lift me higher, higher, higher!" And the father lifted higher and higher, till he lifted him as far as he could reach. Yet, still the barely audible whisper came, "Higher, father, higher," till at last, his head fell back, and his spirit passed up to the eternal King—high at last. So, my dear friends, let your constant cry be higher, higher, more near the cross of the Son of God.