My father saw him first,
Searching in vain for the Y.
Snow had unveiled Joseph’s face,
Eyes quickening in dream—or vision.
Ironic that my father, who said,
“If I see the gold plates, I’ll believe,”
Saw—at once—the face of The Prophet
Engraved in granite and crystal,
While I, eyes opened by testimony,
Looked at the mountain a thousand times,
And saw only snow, rock, and the letter
That brands this place as Brother Brigham’s.
As he built Nauvoo and walked with saints and angels,
In vision, Joseph saw his people grow mighty in the mountains—
Then steadfast mourners bore his death mask to these valleys,
The Seer’s eyelids shrouded in white plaster.
Fitting that The Revelator, winter of his life
Cut off by rabble with black-painted faces,
Has his visage revealed in ice and stone,
Chiseled from mountain without hands.
