Classic Poem

Build up, ye Crafts, the Sacred Fane —
Raise up its walls as high as Heaven —
But shape your blocks and lay them there,
Upon the pattern given.
Our Master bade us labor so —
He marked the years, three score and ten,
And gives us many a noon-tide hour,
To cheer his toiling men.
We build no walls for time to gnaw,
No halls for men who yield to death; —
Our pattern is the perfect L AW ,
And God our service hath!

He reined the passions' evil train;
He quenched the fires within the breast;
He sunk them deep beneath the earth,
And there we bid them rest.

He laid in love the C ORNERSTONE , —
A firm, unshaken Rock 'tis found,
Our fathers built on this alone,
For this is holy ground!
We build no walls for time to gnaw,
No halls for men who yield to death; —
Our pattern is the perfect L AW ,
And G OD our service hath!