Born in the east, but died in the west

Went to his grave the best of the best

Accused, maligned, misunderstood

But the prophet declared that his life was good

Boggs cried, “That man shot me,” yet how can this be?

If he shoots you, you’re shot, son, I guarantee

He guarded our Joseph, and then Brigham Young

With blade from sheath and bullet from gun

Like Samson of old his long hair he maintained

And by prophetic word, his endurance he gained

In a time when the land was hard as a stone

And men were yet harder, at twelve they were grown

Our Porter stood stronger than men near or far

The ground was his pillow, his ceiling, the stars

Two centuries later his work doth inspire

Those of this mantle must aim themselves higher

Stand firm, stand relentless, stand tall against sin

Deflect demons without, and apostates within

Although he has passed, his work still is needed

Until those who would injure the Saints are defeated

An easier life he’d have had if he’d stayed

On the East Coast, but that was not our Porter’s way

The right path is one not so frequently trod

Still one must tread it if one would follow God

Thus Porter, the Angel, the Thunderous Son

We’ll keep up this fight until it is won

Sustaining the brethren, standing our ground,

Just like that brave man, born back in Belchertown.

Graham Bradley is a truckernovelist, and illustrator. He served a mission in Barcelona, Spain, from 2003-2005. You can follow him on Twitter @GrahamBeRad.

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