By William Mulder
Perhaps I’ll never see the Father face to face,
But I have bowed my head where Joseph knelt
And, moving lips in silent prayer, have felt
The quiet rapture of that sacred place.
The trees in their familiar whisperings
Bore witness, and the very atmosphere
Confirmed what I dared only hope before:
I felt the truth the inward vision brings.
The glory of the grove still lights my way
As it once lighted Carthage, Liberty,
Nauvoo, the westward march – and constantly
The vision shines upon the church today.
The Restoration comes each spring again
To bring me close to God and to my fellow men.