Classic Poem

There is no guiding hand so sure as His
Who guided me, a weary pilgrim, home;
There is no utterance so true as this:
" Go, trust in God, and you shall surely come,
Though broad your pilgrimage, across the ocean foam. "

In all my wanderings I met no harm;
I could not go where God , OUR God , was not!
Though weak , I leaned on His Almighty arm;
Though ignorant , on that Infinite thought,
Which both on nature's page and in His Word is taught.

You sent me, Craftsmen, to the Holy Land —
It was my dream from youth to manly age —
Birthplace and cradle of the mystic Band,
Whose charities adorn earth's brightest page,
Refuge of loving hearts, the Masons' heritage.

Receive now from that Orient land the tale
Gathered for you on Lebanon's snow hills,
From Tyre's granite reefs, from sad Gebale,
From Toppa's crowded slope, from Zarthan's rills,
And from Jerusalem, the world's great heart that fills.

The spirit of our Craft is reigning yet
Through every hill and dale of Palestine;
Strong hands, warm hearts, great sympathies I met,
And interchanged around the ancient shrine,
And brought my wages thence of corn, and oil, and wine.

I stood in silent awe beside the tomb
Where Hiram, Prince of Masons, has his rest;
Its covering is the cerulean dome,
So fitting one with Mason burial blest;
His sepulcher o'erlooks his Tyre on the West.

I knelt beneath the cedars old and hoar
That streak with verdure snowy Lebanon;
The mountain eagles o'er the patriarchs soar,
The thunder clouds of summer grimly frown,
Where large and strong they stand, those giants of renown.

I mused along the bay from whence the flotes
Went Joppa-ward, in old Masonic days;
Its waters sing, as when the Craftsmen's notes
Made the shores vocal with their hymns of praise;
And fervent notes and true my grateful heart did raise.

I plodded midst the heaps of sad Gebale;
Of all her glories not a trace is found,
Save here and there a relic, left to tell
The School of Mystic lore, the holy ground,
Where Hiram's matchless brows with laurel leaves were crowned.

I climbed the hill of Joppa, at whose foot
The unceasing tide of stormy waters beats;
Though raftsmen's calls and gavel sounds are mute,
The generous Ruler of the port repeats
Our S ACRED W ORD in love, and all true Craftsmen greets.

From Shiloh's cap I overlooked the site
Of Hiram's foundries, Zeredatha's plain;
Beyond, on Gilead's ranges swelled the fight
When Jephthah drove the invading force amain,
And Jordan tinged her waves with unfraternal stain.

Upon Moriah's memorable hill,
And in the Quarries 'neath the city's hum,
And midst the murmurs of Siloam's rill,
And in Aceldama's retired tomb,
My Mason songs I chanted, fraught with grief and gloom.

For oh, in sadness sits Jerusalem!
Queen of the earth, in widow's weeds she lies;
Shade of historic glory, low and dim,
Thy Day star gleams upon our eager eyes;
Oh, that from her decay loved Salem may arise!

Now homeward come, my Mission I return
To this warm Brotherhood, dear Sons of Light;
My Testimony stands — my work is done,
Yours be the honor , as is just and right!
Be all your jewels bright, your aprons ever 'white.

Honor to those who bore this generous part,
Writing their names upon the Holy Land!
Honor to every true and loving heart
That makes Freemasonry such matchless Band;
And may the Great I AM amongst you ever stand!