We dreamed of places far away
where our pilgrim feet might tread,
where the Shepherd spoke His parables
and fed scores with fish and bread;
of a place where living water flowed
so that we might never thirst,
where Alpha and Omega taught
that the last shall be the first,
where He cleansed the leper, raised the dead,
where He calmed the angry sea,
gave the blind their sight, the lame their strength,
and the captive, liberty;
of a place within an olive grove
where He bled from every pore,
and infinite atonement made
through a suffering so sore
that every sin and every error,
every wrong, and every vice
were paid in full, paid one by one,
through His perfect sacrifice;
of a hill they christened Calvary,
where they nailed Him to a tree,
where to save our souls, He gave His life,
and gave it willingly;
of a quiet peaceful garden tomb
where the first day of the week
He broke for all the bonds of death,
for the proud and for the meek.
Yes, long we dreamed and hoped some day
we might pitch our pilgrim tent
and feel our Savior’s perfect love
in those places where He spent
His earthly life and ministry.
How could any other place
provide our souls their one desire:
comprehend His matchless grace?
Throughout our life it always seemed
He had work for us to do.
We answered “yes” to every call
and we raised our family true
to all the covenants we had made
as we labored side by side.
Our family first. His blessings flowed
as we followed Christ and tried
to do His will in times of joy
and in times of bitter tears.
Our long-planned trip to Palestine
was postponed for many years.
His kingdom next, and we were glad
for chances come our way
to make token payments by our toil
on a debt we’d never pay.
We found great joy while in His cause,
but we never found the time,
and we never saved enough hard cash
to pursue our goal sublime.
But life is unpredictable;
most of it had passed us by
when at last we’d saved the means by which
we’d fulfill before we died
our life-long dream. The time had come;
we would finally walk and trace
His perfect footsteps, feel at last
His love and matchless grace.
But God had other plans for us.
We heard His prophet’s voice.
We felt His spirit stir our souls
and we made the easy choice
to once again forgo our trek;
we’d heed His call instead
and serve a mission, use our means
to go where ere He led.
High on Wyoming’s windswept plain,
near a continent’s divide,
just to the west of Devil’s Gate,
is where we now reside.
Our errand is to tend a place
where deer and pronghorn rove,
a place of cedar, sand, and sage,
a place called Martin’s Cove.
Here stopped a band of handcart saints.
Five-hundred fifty souls
were stranded by October snows
between these granite shoals.
In this ravine they pitched their tents,
began their four-day stand
awaiting rescue, life or death,
in this unforgiving land.
Exhausted, starving immigrants,
they’d given all they had
to gather at a prophet’s call.
They’d cross the ocean. Glad
of heart they came, assured their Lord
would guide their steps; and they
pulled on in faith, their voices raised
in prayer along their way.
They’d started late, poor, ill-equipped,
across the prairie sod,
but did not doubt and on they pulled
full trusting in their God.
“To Zion, on to Zion, on!”
Their faith so strong, so sure,
no sacrifice, no suffering
was too much to endure:
grave illness, hunger, bitter cold,
frostbitten hands and toes,
wolves that robbed their shallow graves,
the deep and blowing snows.
Some ask, “had God forsaken them?
Could He not have kept them warm?
How could He leave them all alone?
Could He not have calmed the storm?”
Alone? No! they were not alone.
Though great their sacrifice
to comprehend His matchless grace,
they gladly paid the price.
Yes! He was with them; He was there.
Our Lord does not forsake
His people in their time of need.
He gave them strength to take
each painful step, each breath of life;
and those who died received
He to His rest. The highest price
He asked of those who grieved:
the widow and the motherless,
the orphan and the man
who buried wife and tender child.
We may not understand
why God would ask so great a toll
be paid by those who came,
and why, despite the awful cost,
they praised and blessed His name.
But none of those who lived to tell
the story of this place
would ever deem the price too high
to comprehend His grace.
High on Wyoming’s barren plain,
near a continent’s divide,
just miles northwest of Devil’s Gate,
they suffered and they died.
And when their rescuers at last
arrived to bring them aid,
with tears of joy and thankful hearts
they knelt and humbly prayed.
The wonder of this sacred spot
rests not with those who died;
the miracle of Martin’s Cove
lives in those whose faith survived.
Here’s where we labor; here we strive
to share the love we’ve felt,
here in this place of wind and sage,
here where we too have knelt.
We may never walk Gethsemane,
but we’ve found our Sacred Grove.
We’ve come to know Christ’s matchless grace
right here in Martin’s Cove.

During the summer of 2001, I traveled with the youth of our ward and stake to Martin's Cove, Wyoming. In preparation for that trip, my wife and I had made the same trek earlier that spring. While there we marveled at both the sacred beauty of the place and the dedication and testimonies of those couple missionaries who were serving there. I count as one of my most spiritual experiences the quiet moments I spent alone with my thoughts on that site where so many paid the ultimate price for their faith in the restored gospel. I knew then that the only way I could hope to communicate the experience was through poetry. A second equally prized experience came on the second trip when I crawled out of my tent very early one morning and walked to the cove where, as the light from the rising sun began to color the granite shoal that towered over me, I knelt and recited the poem I had written.