Classic Poem

Crown the Sacred Hill!
Raise the Golden Shaft!
God doth bless the cheerful will,
Oh, Brothers of the Craft!
Long in sleep Moriah lay,
Mourned her desolation day;
Now awake, in accents clear,
Speak, and willing Masons hear,
To crown the Sacred Hill, etc.

Bring each mystic tool,—
Old and worn they are,
Trowel, Gavel, Line and Rule,
And Level, Plumb and Square.
Spirits of the ages gone,
Guide us to the cornerstone;
Strangers wait, a loving band.
Westward gazing, yearning stand,
To crown the Sacred Hill, etc.

Lo, the ruined shrine!
Ours that mighty pile;
See on every stone the sign,
We know and love it well!
Though in dust the builders lie,
Though their works in ruin sigh,
Yon device, in whispers read,
Give the lesson earnest heed,
To crown the Sacred Hill, etc.