And a little child shall lead them

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,

Bye bye, lully, lullay.

Thou little tiny child,

Bye bye, lully, lullay.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee

And ever mourn and may

For thy parting neither say nor sing,

"Bye bye, lully, lullay."

– Coventry carol

The death of children must be one of the hardest occasions for a pastor to preach on and offer counsel to the bereaved. And it raises trying issues in theodicy and theology, although that has more to do with the emotional problem of evil than the intellectual problem of evil. 

However, that concern may cause us to overlook something else about the death of children. There's a natural fear of death, and that's a good thing. God uses that. Even Christians may tremble at the prospect of death. 

But consider this: if a child can face death, surely an adult can face death. Some children die in the faith. They are old enough to embrace the Gospel. They take comfort in the prospect of heaven. Other children die without the comfort of the Gospel because they were unchurched. 

But fearful or fearless, many children past and present have had to confront their own mortality. And in that regard they set an example for adults. 

That reflects a paradoxical dimension of the Christian faith (1 Cor 1-3). The weak can lead the strong. We may hold a dying child's hand to comfort him, but in another way the dying child is taking us by the hand as he goes ahead, with one hand in heaven, to lead the way. By watching a child–even a child–die before our eyes, we learn how to live and how to die. 

Farewell dear babe, my heart's too much content,

Farewell sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye,

Farewell fair flower that for a space was lent,

Then taken away unto eternity.

– Anne Bradstreet

No sooner came, but gone, and fall’n asleep,

Acquaintance short, yet parting caused us weep;

Three flowers, two scarcely blown, the last i’ th’bud,

Cropped by th’ Almighty’s hand; yet is He good.

With dreadful awe before Him let’s be mute,

Such was His will, but why, let’s not dispute,

With humble hearts and mouths put in the dust,

Let’s say He’s merciful as well as just.

He will return and make up all our losses,

And smile again after our bitter crosses

Go pretty babe, go rest with sisters twain;

Among the blest in endless joys remain.

– Anne Bradstreet

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write,

The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.

How oft with disappointment have I met,

When I on fading things my hopes have set.

Experience might ‘fore this have made me wise,

To value things according to their price.

Was ever stable joy yet found below?

Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?

I knew she was but as a withering flower,

That’s here today, perhaps gone in an hour;

Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,

Or like a shadow turning as it was.

More fool then I to look on that was lent

As if mine own, when thus impermanent.

Farewell dear child, thou ne’er shall come to me,

But yet a while, and I shall go to thee;

Mean time my throbbing heart’s cheered up with this:

Thou with thy Savior art in endless bliss.

– Anne Bradstreet