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A poem found in the hiking registry atop a peak on the Wasatch front

Note: This poem was written in the summit log cached at the top of a nearby peak. No name or date was given. I transcribed it and present it to you unaltered.

I never saw the morning sun atop
The bending grass of boundless plains or perched
On glistening seas that separate the lands 
My fathers quit from wild, unspoiled frontiers.
The dawn has never spoken to me, face
To face, with blinding inspiration. No,
She comes on slow behind the Wasatch, burns
With measured pace, and kindles mute resolve.
So, when my final breath disseminates
Throughout high-desert air and joins the wind
--Embalmed with sage and sweet pine resin--lay
Me in the thirsty ground and point me West.
I'll look not towards the east on that great day
When mighty God makes quick his slumbering sons.
When trumpets blow, the Son of Man will find
Me facing West, so I with perfect eyes
May see the distant mountains, shining gold.