Classic Poem

Gray with the frosts of age,
Dim o'er the midnight page,
Bowed toward the earth, where soon my rest must be,
I give my closing years,
With all its sighs and tears,
O land of holy mysteries, to thee!
Hills, over which our Brotherhood have trod,
Dales, in whose shadows Masons worshiped God!

No nobler work at hand,
It is our fatherland,
There first J EHOVAH breathed his awful name;
In that historic earth
Our customs had their birth,
Our emblems from the land of Hiram came;
Eastward they rose, where Orient suns enrobe,
Westward they moved, encircling all the globe.

Then, Craftsmen, work with me!
Freemasons, come, and see
The sacred mountain where our Temple stood;
Join your right hand with them
Who, at Jerusalem,
Have linked anew the Mason brotherhood;
Help us to kindle up the hidden flame
That on Moriah gilt the Holy Name.