As I tried to say goodbye,
"It might be for the best," they said,
But I knew that was a lie.
I gazed at your little handprint,
Given to us that day,
You wouldn't feel pain again,
But I wanted you to stay.
You fought for every breath you took,
Never letting go,
Until one day God made you His,
Leaving all of us below.
Although you couldn't walk or talk,
Or even count to ten,
Your short life had more impact,
Than a hundred million men.
(written by Tony Doiron)