Beneath a broad palmetto
and a crescent silver moon
a trouble’s started brewing
that will spell this nation’s doom.
Rebellion and sedition
will draw a line from east to west,
and brothers spill their brothers’ blood—
upheaval and unrest
in hearts and minds of sons of men,
the Promised Nation proved,
but “Stand in holy places,”
says the Lord, “And be not moved.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Those promises, called prophecies
by those who would believe it,
were spoken by a man who knew the future.
He could see it.
This generation’s Joseph,
interpreter of dreams,
could see the signs of war,
a nation splitting at the seams.
But the Saints did not build barracks
nor Battle Hymn did sing—
instead they built a temple
to their Savior and their King.
A house of God! A holy place
of learning and of prayer!
How beautiful the feet of those
who went to worship there!
A place of peace and safety
from danger and from sin,
a place of refuge, where they could
be safely gathered in.
Now, that Carolinian prophecy
would prove to be a bust—
negotiating parties found a deal
and called it just.
No blood was shed, no thunder clouds,
no quaking of the earth—
no calamities to make
a prophet’s words worth what they’re worth.
He set this prophecy aside,
didn’t bind it with the rest.
It seemed the danger wasn’t
quite as near as he had guessed.
The Saints, they built their temples
and were run from town to town.
They drained a swamp, built Zion up—
the neighbors burnt it down.
So yes, the violence followed them,
but not prophetically.
The mobs would gather
then they’d sputter out pathetically,
but not before they’d worn
their muddy boots on sacred ground,
invading holy places,
scatt’ring all their filth around.
“Stand in holy places”
was the mandate of the Lord.
but what to do when holy
wasn’t holy anymore?
The people pushed the Mormons out,
and put their prophet in a prison.
They shot him dead, and with him
any talk of having visions.
The prophecies, they seemed to die
with Joseph and his brother
for those who did not see his mantle
fall upon another.
Elisha, Moses, Brigham,
said “The mountains are our home!
We’ll go and build our temple there
and never have to roam!
We’ll stand in holy places
where the heathens cannot reach us!
We’ll build a temple and
the Lord of Hosts will come and teach us!”
By companies they sallied forth,
they sang and wandered west,
crossed rivers, plains, and peaks, and vales,
and finally found rest.
In worship, they would quarry stone
to build their temple lot.
All prophecy of Carolina
left behind, forgot.
But God does not forget His word;
He works in His own time,
and unrepentant men must all
be punished for their crimes.
The crimes of murder, rape,
or trading silver for a man,
enslaving, whipping children
who pulled cotton from the land.
The blood of slaves soaked southern soil
and to the Lord it wept,
“O, God, avenge us!
All your other promises you’ve kept!”
And when His cup of wrath was filled,
God tipped and poured it out
upon the heads of rebels
who would call themselves The South—
upon the heads of worms
who thought to call themselves The Master.
Those devils saw themselves as gods
and spelled their own disaster.
Upon the heads of those who fought
to keep their kin in chains,
who lashed and beat and slew the sons of God
yet felt no shame—
God buries, burns, and washes out
the souls condemned to hell.
Sometimes though, he lets us
do the dirty work ourselves.
The most unholy sinners
drew a line twixt North and South,
and brothers spilled their brothers’ blood
from heart and hand and mouth.
The wrath of God was poured on corpses
strewn across the ground.
What scene of death and carnage.
What wretched, mournful sound.
While sons and brothers decomposed,
in bloody gray and blue,
the wrath within the living
tore one nation into two.
As Joseph’s promise was fulfilled,
the Saints had fled the scene
up to the mountain of the Lord
to wash and be made clean.
Far off from the cannons
and the trenches with death filled,
the saints had found a holy place,
a temple, a “Beth-El.”
They shouted their Hosannas
and surrendered to the Lord.
They waved the flag of peace
and listened to His holy Word.
When war was at their heels,
they left and found a promised land.
They built a holy temple
and that’s where they took their stand.
So when the war’s a-raging
and the wicked do applaud,
go find yourself a holy place,
get to the house of God.
In power and great glory
God will all His saints defend.
Stand in holy places.
Be not moved until the end.
Ethan Unklesbay is a stay-at-home dad and Mormon poet based in Utah. He writes and posts a poem (almost) every day on his Substack, and has produced two privately printed collections so far, Signs and Wonders and Portrait of an Ecclesiastic. His work has also been published in Wayfare. He loves his wife, his kids, and his e-bike.
