The Latter-Day Prophet: History of Joseph Smith Written for Young People

by George Q. Cannon

The four prisoners, Joseph and Hyrum Smith, John Taylor and Willard Richards, spent a very dull, gloomy day, seemingly weighed down by the terrible fate before them. In the afternoon, Brother Taylor sang this beautiful hymn:

A poor wayfaring man of grief, Hath often crossed me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief That I could never answer nay.

I had not power to ask his name; Whither he went or whence he came; Yet there was something in his eye That won my love, I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread, He entered—not a word he spake! Just perishing for want of bread, I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,

And ate, but gave me part again; Mine was an angel's portion then, For while I fed with eager haste, The crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him where a fountain burst, Clear from the rock—his strength was gone, The heedless water mocked his thirst, He heard it, saw it hurrying on.

I ran and rais'd the suff'rer up; Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipped and return'd it running o'er; I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice, abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof.

I warm'd, I cloth'd, I cheered my guest, I laid him on my couch to rest: Then made the earth my bed, and seem'd In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stripp'd, wounded, beaten nigh to death, I found him by the highway side; I rous'd his pulse, brought back his breath, Reviv'd his spirit, and supplied

Wine, oil, refreshment—he was heal'd; I had myself a wound conceal'd; But from that hour forgot the smart, And peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw him next—condemn'd To meet a traitor's doom at morn; The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd, And honor'd him 'mid shame and scorn.

My friendship's utmost zeal to try, He asked if I for him would die; The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, But the free spirit cried, "I will!"

Then in a moment to my view, The stranger started from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew, The Savior stood before mine eyes.

He spake—and my poor name he nam'd—"Of me thou hast not been ashamed; These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto me."

After this sweet song was ended the Prophet asked him to repeat it. He said that he had not the spirit of singing, but they urged him and he sang it again.

Shortly after five o'clock some of the brethren saw men with painted faces running around the corner of the jail toward the stairs. There was a cry of surrender. Three or four gun shots were heard and in a moment the mob was at the door. The brethren placed their bodies against it and held it shut. A pistol bullet was fired into the keyhole to break the lock. Hyrum stepped back and a bullet through the door panel struck him in the face and two through the window at the same moment tore his flesh. He fell saying:

"I am a dead man."

The door was forced open and gun barrels were thrust through. Joseph fired three shots into the hallway from a pistol that had been left with him by Brother Wheelock. Brothers Taylor and Richards with heavy walking canes, tried to beat down the guns. The muskets belched great flashes of fire into the room, and it seemed that in a moment they would all be destroyed. John Taylor sprang to the window but a bullet from the door pierced his thigh and he fell on the sill. He was slipping out headfirst when another bullet from the outside struck his watch and drove his body back into the room. To save himself he began to crawl under the bed, when three other bullets splashed his blood upon the walls.

Joseph saw his brother Hyrum dead on the floor and John Taylor apparently dying. Willard Richards was still unharmed, and to save him, the Prophet ran to the window intending to spring out. While he stood for just an instant before making the leap, two bullets struck him from behind and one from the mob below. His dying words were:

"Oh Lord, my God!"

He smiled and fell to the ground—dead.

A hatless Missourian with bare legs and arms, ran to him and set his body in a sitting position against the curb of a well. Colonel Levi Williams ordered four men to shoot. They fired their bullets into the Prophet's body, but he was past the power of men to hurt. The ruffian who had placed the body against the curb, with gleaming knife in his hand rushed to cut off the head and thus gain the reward offered by enemies in Missouri. Suddenly a light from heaven burst upon the scene, the knife fell to the ground, and the Missourian and the four men that had shot Joseph were as if turned to stone. The mob in terror fled on all sides, but Williams called them to take away their four companions. They threw these into the wagon and then set off.

Willard Richards had suffered only a slight wound in the ear and after hiding Brother Taylor under an old mattress in another cell, he went out to learn whether the Prophet was really dead or not. Though he thought the mob would kill him, he determined to find out Joseph's fate. He came back and told the awful news to Apostle Taylor, and a dull, lonely, sickening pain, more terrible than the pain from his wounds, came over that faithful man. Doctor Richards prepared the bodies of the Prophet and Patriarch, and early next morning, after providing for Brother Taylor, started for Nauvoo.