When God calls little children,
to dwell with Him above,
We mortals sometime question,
the wisdom of His love.
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 rose bud,
before it can grow old.
God knows how much we need them,
and so He takes but 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.
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