To President Joseph Smith and his lady presentess Emma Smith.

Since by chance the key bump has been added to you with its proper enlargement of brain.

Let me hope all the Thunderbolt's malice may strew will excite in your bosom no pain.

But I think if an angel were stationed in air for a season

just over our heads.

With a view of things passing,

his optics would stare to behold

the vague scenery that spreads.

He'd be apt

to conclude from the medley of things

we've got into a jumble of late,

a deep intricate puzzle, a tangle of

strings that no possible scheme can make straight. Tell me, what will it be, and oh, where will it

end? Say, if you have permission to tell, is there any fixed point onto which prospects tend?

Does a focus belong to pell-mell? From the midst of confusion can harmony flow,

or can peace from distraction come forth? From out of corruption, integrity grow, or can vice

unto virtue give birth? Will the righteous come forth with their garments unstained, with their

hearts unpolluted with sin? Oh yes, Zion, thy honor will be

sustained and the glory of God ushered in.

From Eliza Arsnow, August 20th, 18142.

I am Ryan McKnight.

I'm Kara Santa Maria.

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