“Moroni, My Son,” Ensign, Sept. 1973, 31
Moroni, My Son
In an early year of our uneasy peace
My wife brought forth a son, a solemn boy.
His eager eyes would follow me before
His feet could go; and when at last they could,
He toddled, walked, then strode beside me, all
My errands his. And now again his arm
Is mine. We hurl, hew, and grapple—not
For homes, for wives, for friends, for they are not;
We fight because we make defense or yield
Our witness of the Christ. My son’s keen eyes
Are warm, compassionate, as yet I glimpse
Them through his helmet’s narrow slit. My own
Would blur in gratitude, that he who grew
To manhood knowing war and hateful truce
Thinks mercy, charity for brethren foe.
That look I will carry with me when I go
And place it gratefully at Jesus’ throne.
Painting by Arnold Friberg