Little Angels

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,

World wonderful and mild.

Perhaps God tires of calling

The aged to his fold.

So he picks a rosebud

Before it grows old,

God know 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 angel departs

We who are left behind,

Angels like Brooke are hard to find.