Eliza Maria

My husband is dead. 
My beautiful husband is dead. 
Shot down by the mob. 
The Prophet of God is dead. 

I shall never bear his children,
I no more will feel his touch. 
The pain seems more than I can bear,
But I will go on. 

There are seven of us,
The first will stay here. 
The apostles have said
The rest of us must leave.
They will take us into their families.
This seems hard and heartless
But the apostles have said. 

The night is cold and raw,
I can see across the river,
But the home I loved is no more.
The lump in my heart grows larger.

I will turn my face to the west. 
Though the wind is bitter
I will go on. 
I know the gospel is true. 
But my heart, oh my heart,
​Lies buried in Nauvoo.