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JOHN TAYLOR
O give me back my Prophet dear,
And Patriarch, O give them back;
The Saints of latter days to cheer,
And lead them in the gospel track.
But oh! they're gone from my embrace,
From earthly scenes their spirits fled;
Two of the best of Adam's race,
Now lie entombed among the dead.
Ye men of wisdom tell me why,
No guilt, no crime in them were found,
Their blood doth now so loudly cry,
From prison walls, and Carthage ground.
Your tongues are mute, but pray attend,
The secret I will now relate,
Why those whom God to earth did lend,
Have met the suffering martyr's fate.
Your tongues are mute, but pray attend,
The secret I will now relate,
Why those whom God to earth did lend,
Have met the suffering martyr's fate.
O give me back my prophet dear.1