Four archangels tread slowly along the white edge of the world, carrying a startlingly small coffin. The speaker protests inwardly: how could God bid a child leave spring sunlight for that lonely shell, dropped into silence and night? The quiet steps and furled wings create a reverent stillness heavy with sorrow.
From the sheer summit they cast the coffin into unknown glooms. Inside rests “God’s little pitiful Body”—a frail, curled form like a crumpled flower petal, making the loss feel cosmic and unbearably tender. The archangels watch until it disappears, then turn their sorrowful faces downward toward the plain. The scene leaves an ache of quiet, bewildered grief, as if even heaven mourns a child’s death.