by Nora R. Mickelson, Manti Utah

From Saga of the Sanpitch, Vol. 1, 1969

2nd Place Winner, Historical Writing Contest

A golden heritage has come to me,

Of home and field, of flower and fruited tree,

Of Gospel truths and blessed liberty.

For all these legacies most grateful should I be.

For it was not my fragile hand that pushed the cumbrous through the endless brush.

My tender naked feet have never known the burn of blistering sand or bruise of jagged stone.

I’ve never been awakened from my dreams by sound of mobber’s threats, or Indian’s savage screams.

Nor have I ever for scant ration dug, with sweaty toil,

The side hill sego bulb.

Neither from an angry father’s roof have I been turned with

Bitterest reproof, because I could not in my heart deny,

Those golden truths for which a martyred prophet died.

Yet those who endured all these things for me,

Never lived to see the fruit upon their tree,

Or pick from arbored vine a fragrant flower.

Or see the sun shine on a temple spire.

Their hearts would nigh have burst with ecstasy,

Could they have seen and known the things which are so Commonplace to me.

Oh! More than gratitude I owe to those brave, stalwart souls, and strong,

Who versioned what their strength would mean to future generations yet unborn.

Yes, more than gratitude they claim for me—

A life as true and staunch as theirs,

Of service full, of sacrifice not spared,

A book of dead redeemed, a testimony shared.

God grant my life, so lived through all the years,

Be not too poor a pay for all their toil and tears.

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