If you could build a mountain in the mourning, it would be piled heavily here.
Upon the turbulent flowing river of grieving mothers and fathers tears.
The wet green fields encompass shrouding a tragic tale, dew to be told.
of tiny hands and feet once turned pale and cold.
A congregation gathers here in the silent echoes of the ill fated.
A shoebox coffin, relegated away from the consecrated.
The blessed ones will be marked with stone.
As these children and animals share the ground alone.
Forgive us Father of original sin, hear our prayer.
Acknowledge to heal the broken hearted and sadness lying there.