And the Angel of Death stood there weeping
Early in the morning of December 14,
When the little village of Newtown, was sleeping
He thought his trip would be for one, and not any others
He was sent, because a disturbed son,
Had murdered his own mother
Walking around on grass and the clover
He heard the One On High say,” You’re job is not over”
He had arrived there early; the morning was crisp and cool