At night we tell stories of
The wildfire ponies
That dance for children as they
Carry them on
Their backs on the moon path to God,
Flying high over the stone sentinels standing
Above the valley.

We can see the silver river
Like a necklace lost on the valley floor
In the moonlight.

Grandfathers seem to rise from the flickering
Fire and we wish they had never died.
Their gray eyes and silver hair seem as God
To us, and warm, a place without guile.

With them we ride to meet the dawn,
Where grapes and blackberry wine,
With bread hot from stone ovens,
And butter cools in the crock at the creek
Among wildflowers and green apples.
There the red lilies stretch out greeting the currant bushes.

All of these speak of the Coming of Christ.

The trees, aspen and oak, and hazelnut,
Laugh in the south wind:

“Christ is coming!”
And we know it is true.

Principle: As is typical of the world, the wicked held their celebration of the century’s birth while the child was not ready, and they had to take it out of the womb by C-section before its time. No matter, they do not control events. God has loosed his angels, and they await his signal.

Scripture: Doctrine and Covenants 133:46 (Isaiah 63:1)