A poor wayfaring man of grief, Hath often crossed me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief That I could never answer nay. I had not power to ask his name; Whither he went or whence he came; Yet there was something in his eye That won my love, I knew not why. Once, when my scanty meal was spread, He entered--not a word he spake! Just perishing for want of bread, I gave him all; he blessed it, brake, And ate, but gave me part again; Mine was an angel's portion then, For while I fed with eager haste, The crust was manna to my taste. I spied him where a fountain burst, Clear from the rock--his strength was gone, The heedless water mocked his thirst, He heard it, saw it hurrying on. I ran and rais'd the suff'rer up; Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, Dipped and return'd it running o'er; I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice, abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof. I warm'd, I cloth'd, I cheered my guest, I laid him on my couch to rest: Then made the earth my bed, and seem'd In Eden's garden while I dream'd. Stripp'd, wounded, beaten nigh to death, I found him by the highway side; I rous'd his pulse, brought back his breath, Reviv'd his spirit, and supplied Wine, oil, refreshment--he was heal'd; I had myself a wound conceal'd; But from that hour forgot the smart, And peace bound up my broken heart. In prison I saw him next--condemn'd To meet a traitor's doom at morn; The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd, And honor'd him 'mid shame and scorn. My friendship's utmost zeal to try, He asked if I for him would die; The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, But the free spirit cried, "I will!" Then in a moment to my view, The stranger started from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew, The Savior stood before mine eyes. He spake--and my poor name he nam'd--"Of me thou hast not been ashamed; These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto me." After this sweet song was ended the Prophet asked him to repeat it. He said that he had not the spirit of singing, but they urged him and he sang it again. Shortly after five o'clock some of the brethren saw men with painted faces running around the corner of the jail toward the stairs. There was a cry of surrender. Three or four gun shots were heard and in a moment the mob was at the door. The brethren placed their bodies against it and held it shut. A pistol bullet was fired into the keyhole to break the lock. Hyrum stepped back and a bullet through the door panel struck him in the face and two through the window at the same moment tore his flesh. He fell saying: _"I am a dead man."_