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The Jimson Hill Chapel

Samuel Jimson 
Gave the land to God 
To save the souls of 
Progeny unborn. 
He gave the hill and 
Rough-cut white pine boards 
In easy walk of 
Cornfields where half-read 
Jimsons grew and spread. 

He hoped, an old man, 
To plant the gospel 
Seed in fields grown high 
With corporal tares. 
He prayed an old man’s 
Prayer and died secure 
That posterity 
Would see the error 
Of their way and turn. 

Hope and prayer were good, 
But forty soul-sad 
Years have brought not one 
Live Jimson under 
That tarred roof inspired 

By their father’s faith.

Testimony of Sophia Fingren

It’s funny those young men
Will count me a proselyte, 
Me who’s known the truth 
More than both their years. 

Knowing the truth and finding it—
That’s where my problem was. 

The Baptists brought me in,
Dunking me in Willow Pond
Before I’d turned fifteen. 
I stayed for seven years 
Then wore plain Pentecostal gowns
seven more. Then Methodist,
Christian, Presbyterian, in turn;
Each time I changed, 
The truth was just in sight. 

I met the Jimson children 
When I was twenty-eight. 
I thought to marry one, 
Or rather he thought me 
The wifely sort. Who knows
What might have been if I’d
Said yes. But shyness, and the fact
No others asked have kept 
Me to my search. 

I love the Lord, and yet 
On winter days sometimes 
I dream I walk this hill 
With children’s hands in mine,
And husband’s following form.

I’m eighty-four next spring,
And aging hope must testify
That Mormon hills are steep
And benches are just as hard
As Baptist brotherwood. 
The difference between us all
Is not of bench or hill 
But priesthood and celestial dream.

In Jesus’ name. Amen. 

The Testimony of Jonas Tender

You know me and my family. 

We come, sit, bow our heads,
Listen, and hope. This much
I testify. 

                                    Amen.

Testimony of Sylvan Hanks, Elizabeth Tenders, and John Foster

We are the children, 
We sleep 
            smile 
                        laugh and 
            cry our noisy reverence. 

We are the hope 
            and light of the church 
set innocent upon this hill. 

We are the children, 
We grow 
            shout 
                        hear and 
            dream the stories we are told. 

David, Moses, 
            Joseph Smith and we 
will all live forever. 

Amen.

The Miracle of the Wasps as Told by Stephen Hanks

I found them when I came 
To light the kerosene 
Before our Sunday school. 
A window partway up 
Had let them in before 
A first October frost. 

They couldn’t fly. New cold, 
Like sin, had left them numb 
And helpless to our brooms. 
In buzzing, crawling piles 
We heaped them in the fire 
Before first-hymn was sung. 

We thought we’d done our best 
But growing warmth and song 
Revived some that were missed, 
And they rose up like fury. 
One of the sisters screamed, 
And brother Ward stood up . . . 

“Our father, we are met . . .” 
I can still hear him pray 
Above the rising dread: 
“Protect us, Lord, from these 
Come by the devil’s wish 
And let us meet in peace.” 

I know as I am here 
Our prayers were heard. No soul 
Was stung, nor since have wasps 
Come back inside this hall. 
This is a true story, 
I testify. 

                                    Amen.

Testimony of Elder John Williamson

I was rocked in a Mormon cradle
Sucked pioneer milk 
From my mother’s breast 
And grew on genealogies 
Who walked and sang 
While Zion bound. 

Born in the church, 
I convert came 
Two months ago 
To this small hill-bound 
Meeting house. 

A proselyte to brotherhood 
And all believers in belief, 
I do intend to share 
This truth with all I meet: 

Praise God his goodness in 
Restoring to us all 
The gift of faith. 

                                    Amen.

The Testimony of Ward Foster

I know God made Deseret,
Defined it Zion and made
It blossom in His work. 

Beyond that land 
There is no place 
Where men may live, 
Except in sin. 

I weep the hymn, 
“Strength of the Hills.” 

There’s godliness in height
Denied to close-grown trees
On gentle rolls of earth.
It takes great rock 
And childhood sky 
With pine-green thatch
To paint a new Jerusalem. 

I’ve lived here 
Thirteen years, 
My family’s begun, 
And yet, I testify 
This has never been home.

Amen.

The Testimony of William Hansen Harvey as Related by Wencil Thomas

William Hansen Harvey, 
Dead five years this summer, 
Still stands at every meeting, 
Just there inside the door, 
Still shadows smiles; and breaths 
Of handshook air still swirl 
The place he stood greeting, 
Knowing us all. 

                                    Mister Harvey, 
Wild Will, Brother William: 
A confirmed member of the church 
Since thirty-three, and never 
Taught a class, said prayer, 
Or blessed the sacrament. 

Confirmed a year, first time 
They tried the priesthood on him 
He only smiled and shrugged to say, 
”I know my work,” and never 
Once, in following years 
Accepted any call.

Some blamed his wife; 
Her family was one of few 
Catholics who’d stayed on. 
We knew how strict and sturdy-
Willed such women, married,
Could become. Yet when 
She died he mourned her gone
But did not change his place. 

The winter before he left, 
A snow that started flurries 
Changed to wet and deep, 
Blocked roads and broke down trees.
Sunday morning, no tracks 
But his climbed here. I don’t
Know what service, alone, 
He could have held, and yet 
I think there was communion
Here that day. 

                                    Five years 
Dead, this summer. His faith
Stays on: God is as good 
As we are. 

                                    Amen.

The Hill

I keep my space. 

Squat piers of man-piled stone
Deny the church my full embrace,
Holding its frame aloof 
And raising gentlest wind 
To pentecostal moans 
That blend with children’s cries
Above the quiet saints who sleep in me. 

Though separate by stone and wind,
We’ve still become good friends,
This Mormon church and I, 
Each assured that time 
Will verify his role: 
Mine to measure body, 
The church to weigh the soul.