The mob gathered outside the jailhouse door,
Faces painted, 150 men, maybe more
With bayonets, muskets and knives
Up the stairs to take the prophets' lives.
Angry voices reached the men inside
No plan to run, no place to hide.
A ball crashed through the jail room door
Then another, Hyrum, struck in the face, fell to the floor.
"I am a dead man," His groan of pain;
His blood was spilt, the floor was stained.
My dear brother Hyrum, the prophet's lament.
He could see surely, all their lives were spent.
He jumped to the window the other lives to save
John Taylor wounded under the bed, Willard Richards fighting with stave.
Two balls from within, one from without,
"Oh Lord my God!" his death cry shout.
Joseph fell outward, onto the ground below,
The mob rushed out. Don't let him escape! Don't let him go!
From the windows above, Dr. Richards saw the bloody gore,
Leaned against the well, balls to the heart, his death made sure.
Oh Joseph, truly dead, Joseph the Prophet, man of innocence;
My world is shattered, nothing makes sense.
Joseph and Hyrum, not parted in life, together in death
Testified of Christ until their last breaths.
Written to be recited to "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief."