Poetry

By Donnell W. Hunter


Moroni

The stone now rests in place,
its edges carefully concealed in turf
as if unturned since Ramah times
when first this hill heard battle cries,
first felt the heavy marching feet
of armed and angry men
who fought like giants
one week’s war—
till only one survived,
his headless foe beneath his fainting feet.
Why must men hurtle here in hate,
eager to find a foretold fate
on Cumorah?
The records in place,
hidden in the cave below
and in them all our work—
our lives.
From towered Babel,
walled Jerusalem,
we came
led by that same hand
through desert sand
and over seas
until fulfilling forecast destinies
we found Cumorah.

[illustration] “Moroni Burying the Gold Plates,” by Clark Kelley Price

The Cup

I do not think the metal likes the fire
That purges it of dross,
Nor do I think it finds the hammer kind.
But it must suffer fire and hammer,
Block and blade,
Before the gleaming chalice,
Chased and pure,
Stands fit to ransom kings.

Kite Strings

When storms of life assail my heart and mind
Pray I could praise the wind and, too, the string.
What fool am I to chafe against the bind
As, gently tethered, day by day I wing.
Creation’s joy is rapture in the breeze.
Faith-filled, I heav’nward soar on folded knee.
Then, Amen’s echo gone, I so fear trees!
I must learn to seek Him constantly.
Impatient soul, I would rise to skies
Unfettered in my flight, sunlit sojourn.
Yet wisdom whispers on wind’s wings, “Be wise,
Kite-child of Mortal March, arise and learn:
Bequest triumphant—timeless laws divine
Secure thee, soaring evermore, still mine!”