Classic Poem

Now we hail the Junior Warden,
Lo, his column crowns the South!
Drop the heavy tools of labor,
Give the time to song and mirth.
Twelve, High Twelve , the hour is sounding,
Noonday sun is in the sky;
Come, the Social Lodge surrounding,
Filled with sympathy and joy.

Corn that feeds the soul in fatness,
Oil in radiant truth to shine,
Wine that sparkles in love-promptings, —
Come, ye weary ones, and dine!
Twelve, High Twelve , the hour is sounding,
Noonday sun is in the sky;
Come, the Social Lodge surrounding,
Filled with sympathy and joy.

How the Social Fire enkindles
These true souls on every side!
Could we ask for richer wages
Than Our M ASTER doth provide?
Twelve, High Twelve , the hour is sounding,
Noonday sun is in the sky;
Come, the Social Lodge surrounding,
Filled with sympathy and joy.

Lord Jehovah, bless our meeting,
Thou this time of joy hath given!
'Tis for thee we toil and labor,
Own our workmanship in Heaven!
When High Twelve by death is sounded,
And eternal rest shall come,
Grant us bountiful refreshment
In thine Upper Lodge at home!