When God calls little children to dwell with him above,
We mortals sometimes question.
For no heartache compares with the death of one small child.
Who does so much to make our world,
seem wonderful and mild.
Perhaps God tires of calling the aged to his fold,
So he picks a rosebud before it can grow old.
God knows how much we need them,
and so he takes but a few,
To make the Land of Heaven more beautiful to view.
Believing this is difficult still somehow we must try.
The saddest word mankind knows will always be"Goodbye".
So when a little child departs,
we who are left behind must realize God loves children,
Angels are hard to find.
View My Guestbook
Sign My Guestbook
Cindy O'Connor's poems are all copyrighted. Please credit.