This poem, is dedicated to all the children that have died at a young age, whether due to abuse, birth defects, disease, or abortion. I have no Biblical basis for this view…it is mine alone.  -anita


A small little embryo, just the size of a pea,

Not long ago, sat on Jesus’ knee.

He told of the wonderful plans in store…

Of the amazing life, just outside the wombs door.

He said, “Son, you’ll be another Michael Angelo!

It won’t be long now…you’ll soon get to go!”

…But mother was young, and so afraid!

She ran to the doctor, to abort this babe.

So, now through eternity, he’ll paint the skies,

And the bright yellow sun, as it starts to rise.

He’s joined by the millions that are already there,

Who’ve had their lives ended without a care.

Tiny limbs, torn from their sockets,

Saline burns, no place to hide!

Though they suffered untold agony…

Now with Jesus, they abide!


As I sit, and observe nature with it’s wonderful view,

I’m sure God allows them to do what all children do…

So with watercolors, and crayons, and markers, and paint,

They draw in the sky…sometimes ever so faint;

For I’ve seen angels, and turtles, and castles of clouds…

And I know tiny hands drew them, as they giggled aloud!

Was it them that put that Gull in view, against the blue, blue sky?

Or painted the rose a pretty pink, just as I walked by?

Do they paint the brown eyes of a little fawn?

Or the spots on a butterfly?

Or the  stripes on a bee, buzzing through the air…

Or the snow on the mountains high?

Was it their brush that stroked the canyon wall?

Or painted the mist from the thundering waterfall?

Do they color the rainbow, in all of its hues?

Or that shimmering, glimmering, drop of dew?

The crest of white, on the ocean wave?

Or the dark, black hole, at the mouth of a cave?

The red and golds of the leaves in fall…

Or the majestic redwoods, towering, O so tall?

Do they paint each petal that blooms in Spring?

Or touch their brush to each bird’s wing?

Were they the ones that drew the naked trees

In Burnt Umber, and Somber Black…

Silhouettes, against Winter skies?

Does their brush touch the glistening snow,

As the Winter wind softly sighs?

Did they paint the rocks of the canyon wall,

In the Grandest Canyon of them all?

Or the Cactus blooms on the desert sandy…

Or the Llamas fur, high, in the Andes?


I think they paint everything…a billowy cloud,

Or a lightening bolt, straight to the ground…

A purple dawn, a silver fog…

Or a Harvest moon, big, and round!

The earth and sky, are their canvas huge…

They paint by day, and by night;

They paint the colors of dawn each morning,

And scatter the stars at night!

When I grow tired, and I close my eyes…

Do they close their eyes too?

NO…I think they fly to the other side of the world,

And paint, yet another, SPECTACULAR view!

By:  Anita Mondragon July 2007