Whenever a child dies, an angel comes down from heaven, takes the child in its arms, and spreading out its large white wings, visits all the places that had been particularly dear to the child. From the best-loved place the angel gathers a handful of flowers, flying up again to heaven with them. There they bloom more beautifully than on earth. But that flower which is most loved receives a voice, so that it can join the song of the chorus of bliss.

Hans Christian Anderson

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; They rod and Thy staff comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.