Mountains swell, knuckle, roll.
Foothills slope and slide.
Canyons fold, streams bend,
Salt marshes wrinkle and sink.
These pagan forms alone gave shape&nbsp;&nbsp;
To this valley before God’s people arrived.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;

Not until the Saints brought&nbsp;&nbsp;
Rectilinear rectitude
And wrote a grid into this arid soil
Did this place become the land of God.&nbsp;&nbsp;
 
My parallel brethren,
North Temple, First South,
We will meet in eternity.

And now do I sustain the men
Who bear the Logos
From the mountain to the desert,
Past Saint and Mason, Catholic and Jew
And, unbending, reveal
That the straight line is an act of God.

©David Adamson 2015