We sing of those who've gone,
The friends to memory nearest,
Who left our Lodge forlorn
When youthful hopes were dearest;
We drop our voices low,
And tears in silence flow —
They're gone, they're gone, we know,
To the quiet place of death,
To the silent Lodge beneath,
Where the green sprigs ever bloom,
In the low, low tomb.
Rest sweetly there!
So mote it be!

Each mystic grace they had
Our faithful souls have yielded
The types that made them glad,
Our hearts on them are builded.
The Level, Plumb and Square, —
Th' Acacia, green and fair,
We dropped it gently there
In the quiet place of death,
In the silent Lodge beneath,
Where the green sprigs ever bloom,
In the low, low tomb,
Rest sweetly there!
So mote it be!

We deem not they are lost,
To Faith and H OPE no craven,
But, with the white-robed host
Who look in L OVE to Heaven,
We raise our voices high,
And call them to the sky,
Who here in darkness lie;
From the quiet place of death,
From the silent Lodge beneath,
Where the green sprigs ever bloom;
From the low, low tomb,
Rise, Brother, rise!
So mote it be!