By Anne Smart-Pearce (Connor's Grandma)

We plant our gardens here on earth,
We give them tender care.
We lock intruders out,
But invite the Master there.
And it is He who draws,
And masterminds the plan
That governs the birth and death of man.
He knows the very second we will die,
But often we can’t accept and we cry,
“Oh, Father, do not take this precious little bud,
Let his petals unfold to maturity,
Choose from those grown old,
Please – let this little one stay yet awhile with me.”

“Beloved child, I know your pain,
It was given to me in Gethsemene.
It was not by accident I chose your son.
Have faith and lean on me.
I chose this perfect little one,
To make heaven more heavenly.
When they saw him coming, angels sang with glee,
And loved ones cried, “Oh, look who’s here!
Oh, Connor, Connor, Connor, dear.”
When our tears of sorrow fall,
Their tears are tears of joy,
As loving arms reach out once more
To hold your little boy.
Just as you will again some day.
You’ll watch him grow and laugh and play,
There is no doubt of this, you see,
For God is Love, and Love’s for time,
And all eternity.