Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it is
sweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Suffer
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is
the kingdom of heaven."
The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of its
existence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, where
the rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, and
where, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves will
expand and bloom with unfading lustre!
Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with such
unutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how your
bright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came to
thread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might have
settled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathed
the guileless heart.
Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doeth
all things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to a
haven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile or
enter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh which
fell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you,
as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land of
the blest.
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