to see more Masonic poetry, please visit the Masonic Poets Society
author unknown, estimated to have been written between 1390 and 1445, C.E. See this article in Pietre-Stones Review of Freemasonry
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Hic incipiunt constituciones artis gemetriae secundum Eucyldem.
wel rede and loke,
And pray we hem, for our Lordys sake,
Thro[g]gh fadrys prayers and modrys also,
Forthermore [g]et that ordeynt he,
Yn Egypte he taw[g]hte hyt ful wyde,
After alle the masonus of the crafte,
Fyftene artyculus they ther sow[g]ton Hic incipit articulus primus.
The furste artycul of thys gemetry:--
Of nowther partys to take no mede; Articulus secundus.
The secunde artycul of good masonry,
And to that semblé he most nede gon, Articulus tercius.
The thrydde artycul for sothe hyt ysse,
Withynne lasse he may not be able Articulus quartus.
The fowrhe artycul thys moste be
For alle the masonus tht ben there Articulus quintus.
The fyfthe artycul ys swythe good,
Make no prentes that ys outrage; Articulus sextus.
The syxte artycul [g]e mowe not mysse,
And, ger hys terme come to an ende, Articulus septimus.
The seventhe artycul that ys now here, Articulus octavus. The eghte artycul schewt [g]ow so,
That the mayster may hyt wel do, Articulus nonus.
The nynthe artycul schewet ful welle,
And to hys craft, whersever he go; Articulus decimus.
The thenthe artycul ys for to knowe,
That peyseth no lasse thenne ten ponge, To brynge the werke to ful good ende. Articulus undecimus.
The eleventhe artycul y telle the, Articulus duodecimus.
The twelfthe artycul ys of hye honesté
By the wytte that God the dede sende; Articulus xiijus.
The threttene artycul, so God me save, Articulus xiiijus.
The fowrtene artycul, by good reson,
Byt dyvers crys he have to make, Articulus quindecimus.
The fyftene artycul maketh an ende, Plures Constituciones.
At thys semblé were poyntes y-ordeynt mo, Secundus punctus. The secunde poynt, as y [g]ow say,
That the mason worche apon the werk day,
To deserve hys huyre for the halyday, Tercius punctus.
The thrydde poynt most be severele,
Kepe hyt wel to gret honowre, Quartus punctus.
The fowrthe poynt techyth us alse, Quintus punctus.
The fyfthe poynte ys, withoute nay, Sextus punctus.
The syxte poynt ys ful [g]ef to knowe,
For suche case hyt my[g]th befalle, That they stonde wel yn Goddes lawe. Septimus punctus.
The seventhe poynt he may wel mene,
So y-chasted thenne most he ben; Octavus punctus.
The eghte poynt, he may be sure, Nonus punctus.
The nynthe poynt we schul hym calle,
Yn that costage, so moste hyt be;
Of thy felows goodes that thou hast spende, Decimus punctus.
The tenthe poynt presentyeth wel god lyf,
May make the craft kachone blame.
The crafte he moste nede forswere; Punctus undecimus.
The eleventhe poynt ys of good dyscrecyoun,
That the l(ordys) werke be not y-schende, Punctus duodecimus.
The twelthe poynt of gret ryolté,
They schul maynté hyt hol y-fere xiijus punctus.
The threnteth poynt ys to us ful luf. xiiijus punctus.
The fowrtethe poynt ys ful good lawe
To hem thou most nede by y-swore,
That hath ben ordeynt by ful good lore. Quindecimus punctus.
The fiftethe poynt ys of ful good lore,
A[g]eynus the ordynance that ther ysse
And putte here bodyes yn duppe prison, Alia ordinacio artis gematriae.
They ordent ther a semblé to be y-holde
Yn every place whersever they wolde;
Y chulle they ben holde thro[g]h my londe, Ars quatuor coronatorum.
Pray we now to God almy[g]ht,
That we mowe keepe these artyculus here,
But they were stedefast yn Crystes lay,
An beyleve on hys falsse lay.
Here fest wol be, withoute nay,
Tha[g]gh suche a flod a[g]ayne schulde come,
Gramatica ys the furste syens y-wysse,
Rethoryk metryth with orne speche amonge,
For thys [g]e most kenne nede,
Thenne to churche when thou dost fare,
Uppon the rode thou loke uppe then,
In holy churche lef nyse wordes
Fayre thou stonde up fro the wal,
Fayr and softe, withoute bere;
Grante me the blysse withoute ende;
As seynt Austyn telluth ful ryht,
That holy syht for to sen,
Pray to God with herte stylle,
[G]er thou come hym allynge to;
Thou hast gret nede to governe the welle.
Gode maneres maken a mon.
Then thy selven thou art won,
Then were hyt no curtesy
That myg[h]t make the sytte yn evel reste,
When thou metyst a worthy mon, |
Here begin the constitutions of the art of Geometry according to Euclid.
Whoever will both well read and look
And pray we them, for our Lord’s sake.
Through fathers’ prayers and mothers’ also,
Furthermore yet that ordained he,
In Egypt he taught it full wide,
After all the masons of the craft,
Fifteen articles they there sought, Here begins the first article.
The first article of this geometry;–
Of neither parties to take no mede; (bribe) Second article.
The second article of good masonry,
And to that assembly he must needs go, Third article.
The third article forsooth it is,
Within less he may not be able Fourth article.
The fourth article this must be,
For all the masons that be there Fifth article.
The fifth article is very good,
Make no ‘prentice that is outrage; (deformed) Sixth article.
The sixth article you must not miss
And ere his term come to an end, Seventh article.
The seventh article that is now here, Eighth article. The eighth article sheweth you so,
That the master may it well do. Ninth article.
The ninth article sheweth full well,
And to his craft, wheresoever he go; Tenth article.
The tenth article is for to know,
That weigheth no less than ten pounds, To bring the work to full good end. Eleventh article.
The eleventh article I tell thee, Twelfth article.
The twelfth article is of high honesty
By the wit God did thee send; Thirteenth article,
The thirteenth article, so God me save, Fourteenth article.
The fourteenth article by good reason,
Unless diver cares he have to make, Fifteenth article.
The fifteenth article maketh an end, Plural constitutions.
At this assembly were points ordained mo, (more) Second Point. The second point as I you say,
That the mason work upon the work day,
And truly to labour on his deed, Third point.
The third point must be severely,
Keep it well to great honour, Fourth point.
The fourth point teacheth us also, Fifth point.
The fifth point is without nay, (doubt) Sixth point.
The sixth point is full given to know,
For such case it might befall; That they stand well in G-d’s law. Seventh point.
The seventh point he may well mean,
So chastised then must he be; Eighth point.
The eighth point, he may be sure, Ninth point.
The ninth point we shall him call,
In that cost, so must it be;
Of thy fellows’ goods that thou hast spent, Tenth point.
The tenth point presenteth well good life,
May make the craft acquire blame.
The craft he must need forswear; Eleventh point.
The eleventh point is of good discretion,
That the lords’ work be not y-schende, (spoiled) Twelfth point.
The twelfth point is of great royalty,
They shall maintain it all y-fere (together) Thirteenth point.
The thirteenth point is to us full life, Fourteenth point.
The fourteenth point is full good law
To them thou must need be y-swore, (sworn)
That hath been ordained by full good lore. Fifteen point.
The fifteenth point is of full good lore,
Against the ordinance that there is,
And put their bodies in deep prison, Another ordinance of the art of geometry.
They ordained there an assembly to behold,
In every place weresoever they would;
I ordain they be held through my land, The art of the four crowned ones.
Pray we now to God almight, (almighty)
That we may keep these articles here,
But they were steadfast in Christ’s lay, (law)
And believe on his false lay, (law)
Their feast will be without nay, (doubt)
Though such a flood again should come,
Grammar is the first science I know,
Rhetoric measureth with ornate speech among,
For this you must know needs,
Then to church when thou dost fare,
Upon the rood thou look up then,
In holy church leave trifling words
Fairly thou stand up from the wall,
Fair and soft without noise;
Grant me the bliss without end;
That Saint Austin telleth full right,
That holy sight for to seen,
Pray to God with heart still,
Ere thou come him entirely to;
Thou has great need to govern thee well.
Good manners make a man.
Then thy self thou art one,
Then were it no courtesy.
That might make thee sit in evil rest.
When thou meetest a worthy man, |
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author unknown, courtesy of Oriental Lodge No. 33, Chicago, Illinois
Are you an active member, the kind who would be missed,
or are you just contented that your name is on the list?
Do you attend the meetings, and mingle with the flock,
or do you stay at home and criticize and knock?
Do you take an active part to help the work along,
or are you satisfied to be the kind that “just belong”?
Do you ever go to visit a member who is sick,
or leave the work to just a few and talk about the clique?
There is quite a programme scheduled that I’m sure you’ve heard about,
and we’ll appreciate if you, too, would come and help us out.
So come to the meetings often and help with hand and heart.
Don’t be just a member, but take an active part.
Think this over, member; you know right from wrong.
Are you an active member, or do you just belong?
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author unknown, courtesy of Paul “Big Dog” Townsend
It is not ornamental, the cost is not so great,
There are other things far more useful, yet truly here I do state:
Though of all my possessions, there’s none which can compare,
With that white leathern apron, which all Freemasons wear.
As a lad I wondered just what it all meant,
When Dad hustled around, and so much time was spent,
On shaving and dressing and looking just right,
Until Mother would say: “There’s a Lodge meeting tonight.”
And some winter nights she said: “What makes you go
Way up there tonight through the sleet and the snow?
You see the same things every month of the year.”
Then Dad would reply: “Yes, I know, my Dear.”
“Forty years I have seen the same things, it is true.
And, though they are old, they always seem so new.
For the hands that I clasp, and the friends that I greet,
Seem a little bit closer each and every time we meet.”
Years later I stood at that very same door,
With good men and true who had entered before.
I knelt at the altar, and there I was taught
That Virtue and Honour can never be bought.
That the spotless white lambskin that all Freemasons revere,
If worthily worn grows more precious each year.
That Service to others brings blessings untold;
That without it man may be poor even when surrounded by gold.
I learned that True Brotherhood flourishes there,
That enmities fade beneath the Compass and Square,
That wealth and position are all thrust aside,
As there on the Level Brethren meet and peacefully abide.
So Honour the lambskin, may it always remain
Forever unblemished, and free from all stain.
And when we are called to the Great Father’s love,
May we all take our place in the Celestial Lodge up above.
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by J. Rudyard Kipling, Secretary of The Lodge of Hope and Perseverance, No. 782 (English Constitution), Lahore, Punjab, India (now Pakistan)
THERE was Rundle, Station Master,
An’ Beazeley of the Rail,
An’ ’Ackman, Commissariat,
An’ Donkin’ o’ the Jail;
An’ Blake, Conductor-Sargent,
Our Master twice was ’e,
With ’im that kept the Europe-shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.
Outside—“Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!”,
Inside—“Brother”, an’ it doesn’t do no ’arm.
We met upon the Level an’ we parted on the Square,
An’ I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!
We’d Bola Nath, Accountant,
An’ Saul the Aden Jew,
An’ Din Mohammed, draughtsman,
Of the Survey Office too;
There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
An’ Amir Singh the Sikh,
An’ Castro from the fittin’-sheds,
The Roman Catholick!
We ’adn’t good regalia,,
An’ our Lodge was old an’ bare,
But we knew the Ancient Landmarks,
An’ we kep’ ’em to a hair;
An’ lookin’ on it backwards,
It often strikes me thus,
There ain’t such things as infidels,
Excep’, per’aps, it’s us.
For monthly, after Labour,
We’d all sit down and smoke
(We dursn’t give no banquits,
Lest a Brother’s caste were broke),
An’ man on man got talkin’,
Religion an’ the rest,
An’ every man comparin’
Of the God ’e knew the best.
So man on man got talkin’,
An’ not a Brother stirred
Till mornin’ waked the parrots,
An’ that dam’ brain-fever-bird;
We’d say ’twas ’ighly curious,
An’ we’d all ride ’ome to bed,
With Mo’ammed, God, an’ Shiva
Changin’ pickets in our ’ead.
Full oft on Guv’ment service,
This rovin’ foot ’ath pressed,
An’ bore fraternal greetin’s,
To the Lodges east an’ west,
Accordin’ as commanded,
From Kohat to Singapore,
But I wish that I might see them
In my Mother-Lodge once more!
I wish that I might see them,
My Brethren black an’ brown,
With the trichies smellin’ pleasant
An’ the hog-darn passin’ down;
An’ the old khansamah snorin’
On the bottle-khana floor,
Like a Master in good standing
With my Mother-Lodge once more!
Outside—“Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!”,
Inside—“Brother”, an’ it doesn’t do no ’arm.
We met upon the Level an’ we parted on the Square,
An’ I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!
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by Jim Jordan, courtesy of the Provincial Grand Lodge of Cumberland and Westmorland, England
I heard three knocks at the Temple door,
and then it was opened wide.
I felt the grip of a Mason’s hand,
as I slowly passed inside.
I was lowered on bended knees
as a prayer was said for me,
and then I was helped to pass around
for the Brethren all to see.
All to me was like black of night
as my leader took me round,
and my racing heart I heard more clear
than the organ’s solemn sound.
My faltering footstep here and there
were halted on my way,
as several questions were put to me,
as I struggled not to sway.
Then moving on, I took three steps
and again I had to kneel
whilst my left hand pressed a compass point
for my naked breast to feel.
With my right resting on The Law,
I took my obligation
and I swore I’d be a Mason true
at my initiation.
Some words were said which I could not hear
though wishing that I could see.
Then, after a knock that echoed wide,
my sight was restored to me.
I shall not tell more of what I saw
nor much of what was spoken,
but I saw the sign and heard the word
and felt the Mason’s token.
I’ll tell you this, that I heard a charge
(which later I learned by heart ),
as it told me all that a man should do
as a Mason, from the start.
It matters not if you Pass the Chair
or reach the highest station.
The best event in a Mason’s life
is his Initiation.
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by J. Rudyard Kipling, Secretary of The Lodge of Hope and Perseverance, No. 782 (English Constitution), Lahore, Punjab, India (now Pakistan)
My new-cut ashlar takes the light
Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
By my own work, before the night,
Great Overseer I make my prayer.
If there be good in that I wrought,
Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine;
Where I have failed to meet Thy thought
I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.
One instant’s toil to Thee denied
Stands all Eternity’s offence,
Of that I did with Thee to guide
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,
Godlike to muse o’er his own trade
And Manlike stand with God again.
The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay!
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy Worth --
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;
Oh whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men
That I may help such men as need!
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by J. Rudyard Kipling (1902), Secretary of The Lodge of Hope and Perseverance, No. 782 (English Constitution), Lahore, Punjab, India (now Pakistan)
When I was a King and a Mason -- a Master proven and skilled --
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.
There was no worth in the fashion -- there was no wit in the plan --
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran --
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known.”
Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew,
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew.
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread;
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.
Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart,
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart.
As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.
When I was a King and a Mason -- in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness. They whispered and called me aside.
They said -- “The end is forbidden.” They said -- “Thy use is fulfilled.”
“Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s -- the spoil of a King who shall build.”
I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves, and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber -- only I carved on the stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known!”
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“The Men Who Wear Those Mason Rings”
author unknown, courtesy of Paul “Big Dog” Townsend
Those men who help my dad each day,
they wear those mason rings –
a Square and Compass set in gold,
the praise of which I sing.
My dad, he hurt his back you know,
one cold and wintry day.
He slipped and fell upon the ice,
the insurance would not pay.
And since that time, those rings I see
on hands that help us much,
with mowing lawns and hauling trash,
each day my heart they touch.
They even built a house for me
amid our backyard tree,
where all the neighbour kids
would play with laughter full of glee.
My mom, she cried from happiness,
the time the Masons came
to aid our family in distress
without a thought of gain.
And when I’m big, just like my dad,
of this it must be told:
I want to wear a ring like his,
A Square and Compass gold.
Long years have passed since when
my dad was in that plaster cast,
and since I swore that Solemn Oath
which unites us to the last.
But more than that, I’m proud to say
I wear his Mason ring –
the one dad wore for many years,
until his death this Spring.
And one last time his comrades came
to aid my weeping mother.
They praised and bid a fond farewell
to our fallen Brother.
And after which, my son did ask
about their Aprons white,
and of the rings upon their hands,
of gold so shiny bright.
With tearful eyes, I said with pride,
they’re men of spirit pure,
those men who wear those Mason rings –
of that you can be sure.
And before he went to bed that night,
the family he foretold:
Someday, I’ll wear a ring like Dad’s,
a Square and Compass gold.
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by Jack R. Hunt, 1995, courtesy of Harry Klitzner Company, from whom you can order a plaque inscribed with this poem
A Master Mason is raised with three degrees
and each degree requires him on bended knees.
The three great lights help us to see
that our trestle board represents our deity.
We ask that his blessings to us he will send
during lodge openings from beginning to end.
The supreme architect of the universe,
may we always remember to put him first.
Let’s reminisce back over the years,
remembering each degree and associated fears.
There was nothing to fear, we were taught the right way;
how to be a good Mason from day to day.
Entered Apprentice: the first degree.
How to wear my apron was explained to me.
As we were led through the lodge with a helping hand,
we were taught how to kneel; we were taught how to stand.
The Fellow Craft’s Degree provided more light;
we gained additional knowledge, we received more sight.
Emblematic of manhood, taught science and art;
the square of morality and virtue, a very large part.
Master Mason, Third Degree: the one that’s truly sublime.
Symbolically we’ve had many trials, and we’re almost out of time.
With faithfulness added to our trust, we will be ready to die,
to seek our rewards of fidelity from our great Grand Master on high.
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author unknown, courtesy of Oriental Lodge No. 33, Chicago, Illinois
Ten Master Masons, happy, doing fine;
One listened to a rumour, then there were nine.
Nine Master Masons, faithful, never late;
One didn’t like the “Master,” then there were eight.
Eight Master Masons, on their way to heaven;
One joined too many clubs, then there were seven.
Seven Master Masons, got dealt some hard licks;
One grew discouraged, then there were six.
Six Master Masons, all very much alive;
One lost his interest, then there were five.
Five Master Masons, wishing there were more;
Had a dispute, then there were four.
Four Master Masons, busy as could be;
One didn’t like the programs, then there were three.
Three Master Masons, was one of them you?
One got too tired, then there were two.
Two Master Masons with so much to be done;
One said “What’s the use?” and then there was one.
One Master Mason, found a brother who was true,
Brought him to the Lodge, then there were two.
Two Master Masons didn’t find work a bore;
Each brought another, then there were four.
Four Master Masons saved their Lodge’s fate;
By showing others kindness, then there were eight.
Eight Master Masons, thought their Lodge was keen;
Talked so much about it, they numbered sixteen.
Sixteen Master Masons, to their obligations true;
Were pleased when their ranks swelled to thirty-two.
So we can’t put our troubles at the Lodge’s door;
It’s our fault if we harm the Lodge we adore.
Don’t fuss about the programs or the Master in the East;
And keep your obligation well by serving the very least.
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“Last Night I Knelt Where Hiram Knelt”
by Pat M. Armstrong, courtesy of Men In Brotherhood Lodge No. 1178, Franklin Park, Illinois
Last night I knelt where Hiram knelt
and took an obligation.
Today, I’m closer to my G-d
and I’m a Master Mason.
Tho’ heretofore, my fellow men
seemed each one like the other;
today, I search each one apart.
I’m looking for my brother.
And as I feel his friendly grip,
it fills my heart with pride.
I know that while I’m on the square,
that he is by my side.
His footsteps on my errand go
if I should such require.
His prayers will lead in my behalf
if I should so desire.
My words are safe within his breast,
as though within my own;
his hand forever at my back
to help me safely home.
Good counsel whispers in my ear
and warns of any danger.
By square and compass, Brother now!
Who once would call me stranger.
I might have lived a moral life
and risen to distinction
without my Brothers helping hand
and fellowship of Masons;
but G-d, who knows how hard it is
to resist life’s temptations,
knows why I knelt where Hiram knelt
and took that obligation
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© 2007 by J. Bradley Koehler, PM, Newton Lodge No. 216, Newton, Illinois; courtesy of the author
This is the story of my degree,
all were taken on bended knee.
From one, two, and then three,
darkness to light, now I see.
Ask me, a Mason, I’ll tell you,
about the first degree I took.
Unsure what I was getting into,
how I was nervous and shook.
Every Mason has felt this way,
once blindfolded and in the dark.
Then at the door I’m told to stay,
patiently waiting to embark.
My initiation, about to begin,
my conductor held me tight.
Clamminess described my skin,
square corners to my right.
Silence broke at the gavel’s rap,
and a sweet prayer filled the air.
Then on my hand a gentle tap,
I’m asked to promise and swear.
Then I was brought into the light,
many brethren were there for me.
This was a very special night,
but it was just the first of three.
Ask me, a Mason, I’ll tell you,
about the second degree I took.
Knowing what I was getting into,
a little nervous, but not shook.
Every Mason has felt this way,
twice blindfolded and in the dark.
Then at the door I’m told to stay,
but patiently waiting to embark.
My passing, about to begin,
my conductor held me tight.
A little clammy described my skin,
square corners to my right.
Silence broke at the gavel’s rap,
and a sweet prayer filled the air.
Then on my hand a gentle tap,
I’m asked to promise and swear.
Then I was brought into the light,
many brethren were there for me.
It was another very special night,
this being the second one of three.
Ask me, a Mason, I’ll tell you,
about the third degree I took.
I knew what I was getting into,
not even nervous nor shook.
Every Mason has felt this way,
thrice blindfolded and in the dark.
Then at the door I’m told to stay,
excitedly waiting to embark.
My raising, about to begin,
my conductor held me tight.
Not even damp described my skin,
square corners to my right.
Silence broke at the gavel’s rap,
and a sweet prayer filled the air.
Then on my hand a gentle tap,
I’m asked to promise and swear.
Then I was brought into the light,
many brethren were there for me.
It was the most special night,
the last and final one of three.
Just when I thought I was done,
a Master Mason I’m not yet.
Another journey must begun,
once again I start to sweat.
Into the Temple I had to go,
retracing the steps of others.
Three men there I did not know,
they appeared to be brothers.
The first two gave me a threat,
but meeting them I don’t regret.
The last one seemed to be upset,
meeting him, I will never forget.
Many things I’ve been taught,
a sign, a step, and a token.
Passwords that were sought,
and others never to be spoken.
This is the story of my degree,
all were taken on bended knee.
From one, two, and then three,
darkness to light, now I see.
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author unknown, courtesy of the American-Canadian Grand Lodge of Germany
And now, my brother,
what came you here to do?
When you joined our mystic circle,
had you a purpose in your heart
to be of service to your fellow man
and perform your allotted part?
Or come you out of curiosity
or motive personal in view?
Tell me, brother, on the square,
what came you here to do?
Have you failed to grasp the meaning
of the symbols of our chart?
Have you learned to subdue your passions
and make improvements in your art?
Do you always, always uphold the trusts
On which we firmly stand
Teaching the Fatherhood of God
And the Brotherhood of man?
Have you been willing to aid the brother
When life surges fierce and wild?
Have you offered cheer and comfort
To the Mason’s widow, wife, and child?
If you have done so, my brother,
You are a Mason good and true,
and can give a correct answer.
What came you here to do?
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© 2003 by J. Bradley Koehler, PM, Newton Lodge No. 216, Newton, Illinois; courtesy of the author
True innocence of conduct,
and purity of the heart.
A man prepares himself,
a journey about to start.
The brethren had been told,
the candidate was freeborn.
As an Entered Apprentice,
this was the first time worn.
Revealing tangible evidence,
proudly tied about the waist.
His unmistakable character,
proving to be moral and chaste.
Travelling twice to the altar,
with deity always in thought.
Bib down with the corner up,
a Fellowcraft is thus taught.
Positioned neat and proper,
always tied steadfast and right.
This apron made of lambskin,
unsoiled and brilliantly white.
Raised to the sublime degree,
having repeated furthermore.
The Master Mason squares it,
and dons it this way evermore.
This basic pure white apron,
worn square, level and plumb.
Seen as the badge of a Mason,
for centuries past and to come.
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© by Brother Douglas Malloch
Men build a Road of Masonry
Across the hills and dales
Unite the prairie and the sea,
The mountains and the vales
They cross the chasm, bridge the stream
They point to where the turrets gleam,
and many men for many a day
Who seek the heights shall find the way
Men build a Road of Masonry
But not for self they build
With footsteps of humility
The hearts of men are thrilled
his music makes their labours sweet;
The endless tramp of other feet
The thought that men shall travel thus
An easier road because of us.
We build the Road of Masonry
With other men in mind;
We do not build for you and me,
We build for all mankind.
We build a road, remember, men
Build not for Now, but build for When,
And other men who walk the way
Shall find the road we build today.
Who builds the Road of Masonry,
Though small or great his part,
However hard the task may be
May toil with singing heart.
For it is something, after all,
When muscles tire and shadows fall,
To know that other men shall bless
the BUILDER for his faithfulness.
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© 2007 by J. Bradley Koehler, PM, Newton Lodge No. 216, Newton, Illinois; courtesy of the author
I skilfully worked the stone,
it was hard, rough, and cold.
Then taken from me and thrown,
only square work I was told.
I felt so useless and ashamed,
the Overseers were on guard.
They sent me whence I came,
in quarries where I laboured hard.
The weeks end came about,
and I went to collect my pay.
"Impostor", the others shout,
and I was abruptly taken away.
The Craftsmen began to protest,
then they all started to roil.
An end was put to the unrest,
and then all returned to toil.
Others would watch to see,
as I continued on my piece.
When their eyes were on me,
my drudgery would increase.
Arrival of inspection day,
hearing the words, true work.
Then listen to hear them say,
after another glance, good work.
Facing the men behind cages,
this time was not a disaster.
Taught to collect my wages,
now, I am a Mark Master.
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author unknown, courtesy of Companion Rance R. Bell, Sr., P.M. of George W. Williams Military Lodge No.130, on the former Rhein Main U.S. Air Force Base, Germany
Wherever you may chance to be – Wherever you may roam,
Far away in foreign lands; Or just at Home Sweet Home;
It always gives you pleasure, it makes your heart strings hum
Just to hear the words of cheer, “I see you’ve travelled some.”
When you get a brother’s greeting, And he takes you by the hand,
It thrills you with a feeling that you cannot understand,
You feel that bond of brotherhood that tie that’s sure to come
When you hear him say in a friendly way, “I see you’ve travelled some.”
And if you are a stranger, In strange lands all alone
If fate has left you stranded – Dead broke and far from home,
It thrills you – makes you numb, When he says with a grip of fellowship,
“I see you’ve travelled some.”
And when your final summons comes, To take that last long trip,
Adorned with Lambskins Apron White and gems of fellowship –
The Tyler at the Golden Gate, With Square and Level and Plumb
Will size up your pin and say, “Walk In, I see you’ve travelled some.”
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by James Whitcomb Riley. Appeared in the programme from the Medinah Shriners’ 28 May 1909 Shrine Ceremonial
When a man ain’t got a cent, and he’s feeling kind o’ blue,
An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sunshine through,
It’s a great thing, O my brethren, for a feller just to lay
His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort of o’ way.
It makes a man feel curious, it makes the teardrops start,
An’ you sort o’ feel a flutter in the region of the heart;
You can look up and meet his eyes; you don’t know what to say
When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.
Oh, the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and its gall,
With its cares and bitter crosses, but a good world, after all.
An; a good G-d must have made it – leastways, that is what I say
When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.
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© 2004 by J. Bradley Koehler, PM, Newton Lodge No. 216, Newton, Illinois; courtesy of the author
My life was merely average,
prior to Masonic exposure.
Receiving the right of passage,
I’ve gained a new composure.
The brethren have accepted me,
with fellowship and brotherly love.
A truly sublime gift you see,
from the Supreme Ruler above.
I now see the good in all men,
that I’d overlooked before.
The world seems to be new again,
passing through the tyler’s door.
In the South I prepared the feast,
now in the West I can be found.
Working my way toward the East,
for ‘tis there that I am bound.
In just a short year from now,
the lodge will be in my care.
The Master’s hat upon my brow,
and sitting in the Oriental Chair.
And I’ll do my best to convey,
what Freemasonry means to me.
Labouring harder day to day,
that a better man I might be.
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by J. Rudyard Kipling, Secretary of The Lodge of Hope and Perseverance, No. 782 (English Constitution), Lahore, Punjab, India (now Pakistan)
“Once in so often,” King Solomon said,
Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,
“We will club our garlic and wine and bread
And banquet together beneath my throne.
And all the Brethren shall come to that mess
As Fellow Craftsmen – no more and no less.
“Send a swift shallop to Hiram of Tyre,
Felling and floating our beautiful trees,
Say that the brethren and I desire
Talk with our Brethren who use the seas.
And we shall be happy to meet them at mess
As Fellow Craftsmen – no more and no less.
“Carry this message to Hiram Abif –
Excellent Master of forge and mine:
I and the Brethren would like it if
He and the Brethren will come to dine
(Garments from Bozrah or morning-dress)
As Fellow Craftsmen – no more and no less.
“God gave the Hyssop and Cedar their place –
Also the Bramble, the Fig and the Thorn –
But that is no reason to black a man’s face
Because he is not what he hasn’t been born.
And, as touching the Temple, I hold and Profess
We are Fellow Craftsmen – no more no less.”
So it was ordered and so it was done,
And the hewers of wood and the
Masons of Mark
With foc’sle hands of the Sidon run
And Navy Lords from the Royal Ark,
Came and sat down and were merry at mess
As Fellow Craftsmen – no more and no less.
The Quarries are hotter than Hiram’s forge,
No one is safe from the dog-whips’ reach.
It’s mostly snowing up Lebanon gorge,
And it’s always blowing off Joppa beach;
But once in so often, the messenger brings
Solomon’s mandate: “Forget these things!
Brother to Beggars and Fellow to Kings,
Companion of Princes – forget these things!
Fellow Craftsman, forget these things!”
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by Charles L. Mead, 33°, of Boynton Lodge No. 236, Boynton Beach, Florida
Can you say tonight in parting
with the day that’s slipping past,
that you helped a single brother
of the many whom you passed?
Is a single heart rejoicing
over what you did and said?
Does the man whose hopes were fading
now with courage look ahead?
Did you waste the day or lose it?
Was it well or poorly spent?
Did you leave a trail of kindness,
or a scar of discontent?
As you close your eyes in slumber,
do you think G-d will say,
“You have earned one more tomorrow,
by the work you did today.”?
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by Alan Bode, courtesy of the Provincial Grand Lodge of Cumberland and Westmorland, England
No doubt you all have surely heard
of recent allegations
about a secret Brotherhood:
that one they call the Masons.
Each and every one of us
in here is on the Square,
and we all know the criticisms
are wrong – unjust – unfair.
And those – the ones who write them –
no lodge have been inside.
They know not of the good we do
in this world, far and wide.
So, Brethren, be you not disturbed
at things said by the crowd.
Remember you’re all Masons.
Take heart; stand firm; be proud.
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by J. Rudyard Kipling, Secretary of The Lodge of Hope and Perseverance, No. 782 (English Constitution), Lahore, Punjab, India (now Pakistan)
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!
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by Gerald Massey. Appeared in the programme from the Medinah Shriners’ 28 May 1909 Shrine Ceremonial
We just shake hands at meeting
With many that come nigh;
We nod the head in greeting
To many that go by, —
But welcome through the gateway
Our few old friends and true;
Then hearts leap up, and straightway
There’s open house for you,
Old Friends,
There’s open house for you!
The surface will be sparkling,
Let but a sunburst shine;
Yet in the depth lies darkling,
The true life of the wine!
The froth is for the many,
The wine is for the few;
Unseen, untouched of any,
We keep the best for you,
Old Friends,
The very best for you!
The Many cannot know us;
They only pace the strand,
Where at our worst we show us—
The waters thick with sand!
But out beyond the leaping
Dim surge ‘tis clear and blue;
And there, Old Friends, we are keeping
A waiting calm for you,
Old Friends,
A resting-place for you.
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by Charles Hanson Towne, courtesy of Kerbela Shriners, Knoxville, Kentucky
Around the corner, I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end;
Yet days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it a year is gone,
And I never see my old friend’s face;
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well
As in days when I rang his bell
And he rang mine. We were younger then;
And now we are busy, tire men –
Tired with playing a foolish game;
Tired with trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I will call on Jim,
Just show that I’m thinking of him.”
But tomorrow comes -- and tomorrow goes;
And the distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner! Yet miles away . . .
“Here’s a telegram, sir . . . Jim died today!”
And that’s what we get, and deserve in the end –
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
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© 2003 by J. Bradley Koehler, PM, Newton Lodge No. 216, Newton, Illinois; courtesy of the author
As his family and friends gather,
forming a mournful congregation.
Rest ye now, O’ Master Mason,
you’ve fulfilled your obligation.
He was known to be a good man,
but a better man he’d become.
Clinging to the symbolic tools,
the square, level, and plumb.
The Masonic rites are given,
apron clad Freemasons on display.
He looks back, smiles, and nods,
while ascending the stairway.
All the brethren left behind,
will remember his good deeds.
As he travels Heaven bound,
they all wish him Godspeed.
His body here, but spirit gone,
the earthly bonds now broken.
Where Saint Peter is the tyler,
and passwords never spoken.
Designs upon the trestle board,
this craftsman is set to hasten.
The Supreme Architect orders,
“Rest ye now, my Master Mason.”
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by Janet Lynne Phillips, January 8, 1998, courtesy of Kerbela Shriners, Knoxville, Kentucky
A father’s love is gentle, wise and kind.
He helps to ease your fears and to clear your mind.
He chases away the monsters in your bad dreams.
His strength shows you that it’s not as bad as it seems.
He’s a shoulder to cry on when you’re feeling low.
He can give you a hug and a smile that warms your weary soul.
Always giving, freely, of his time.
To put your care and well being first in his life.
To ease your life from worry and strife.
A father’s love is endless.
Growing more each day.
He’s a light in the darkness.
To guide you on your way.
He’s a source of information and advise when something has gone wrong.
He helps you to figure out the puzzle of your life.
Putting the pieces where they belong.
He’s always, lifting you up and encouraging you to try.
With him by your side, you can do anything.
Even soar into the highest sky.
Giving tender, loving care when you are sick and in need.
Waiting on you, hand and foot.
Catering to your every need.
He watches over you through the night, with a vigilance unsurpassed.
And you know, without a doubt, for you, his love will last.
Making personal sacrifices that his family can have the best.
Keeping food on the table and under a roof in which to rest.
Taking care of those he holds most dear.
Being there to laugh with them.
There to wipe away their tears.
There’s nothing like a father’s love.
Not near or far.
You wouldn’t find anything that comes close.
Even if you went to the, most far away star.
His love is like the father’s love.
Watchful, patient and true.
And just like the father, he will never leave you.
Give him honour and respect he deserves, each and every day you live.
He’s a treasure to be cherished and to him we must give.
All of our love and devotion in return.
For in the presence of our hearts, his love will burn.
For no other place on earth will you find peace from all harm.
Nowhere else, but the shelter of a father’s arms.
Make sure you tell him everyday that you love him so.
Because, one day, home to the Father he’ll go.
For God the Father has given him love to share in words and deeds.
And I’m so glad that he has shared that love with me.
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author unknown, courtesy of Provincial Grand Lodge of Cumberland and Westmorland
From active Masons, resolute,
Our wives and families we salute;
We surely know the price to pay,
Who sit alone while we’re away.
No high degrees on you conferred,
In Lodge, your name is seldom heard;
You serve our cause though out of sight,
While sitting at home alone at night.
Masonic papers list our name,
Awards are given, fit to frame;
But yours is absent ... you who strive,
To keep our fortitude alive.
Your part of every helpful deed,
On your encouragement we feed;
Without your blessing, how could we,
Continue acts of charity.
And so this poem, we dedicate,
To every Master Mason’s mate;
And offer our our undying love,
Rewards await in Heaven above.
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author unknown, courtesy of the American-Canadian Grand Lodge of Germany
Just use me I am the Bible,
I am God’s wonderful library.
I am always and above all The Truth.
To the weary Pilgrim, I am the good strong staff,
To the one who sits in gloom, I am a glorious light.
To those who stoop beneath heavy burden, I am sweet rest.
To him who has lost his way, I am a safe guide.
To those who have been hurt by sin, I am healing balm.
To those who are distressed by the storms of life, I am an anchor.
To those who suffer in lonely solitude, I am a cool, soft hand resting on a fevered brow.
Oh, child of man, to best defend me,
just use me.
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© 2006 by J. Bradley Koehler, 32°, Scottish Rite Valley of Danville, Illinois; courtesy of the author
The first three degrees of Freemasonry,
are the fundamental core.
Although another twenty nine are there,
to assimilate and explore.
The Ancient Accepted Scottish Rite,
is where they can be found.
Beautiful theatrical presentations,
that will impress and astound.
Not to be mistaken for higher degrees,
but merely additional.
While on life’s Masonic journey,
they are simply transitional.
Fourteen are from the Lodge,
that being of Perfection.
The ineffable degrees,
to which you’ll have an affection.
Two are from the Council,
of the Princes of Jerusalem.
Referred to the historical degrees,
of Cyrus’ and Darius’ Kingdom.
Two are from the Chapter,
known as the Rose Croix.
The philosophical and doctrinal degrees,
of hope, truth, and joy.
The final eleven degrees,
are those of the Consistory.
Culminating with the thirty second,
rounding out a complete history.
These all should be viewed,
with an open and inquisitive mind.
Then you’ll understand,
the trials and tribulations of mankind.
A Master Mason’s journey,
is not educationally fulfilled.
Lest all thirty two degrees,
are experienced and instilled.
If you’re seeking further enlightenment,
and you’re ready to pursue.
Then the Scottish Rite,
is here and waiting for you.
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by Mark Bruback, 2000, from his booklet, Legomena (Latin) – Esoteric Knowledge taught by the spoken word
Read between the lines to find the truth within the story;
for those who seek the truth, know it’s hid in allegory
(answers are easy to obtain, but pure of heart you must remain)
I found what governments hide.
The figure head is dead, the mouthpiece lied.
revealed are the secrets of the kings who were crowned
in Solomon’s temple, I know what the Knights Templar found…
…the Widow’s Son…
…the smoking gun…
the Secreting Serpent’s tantalizing tangle
Greetings
On all three
Points of the Triangle
With insider tips, I’ve learned Masonic grips
And illuminating words; spoke from educated lips
I know what they mean; when they say thirteen!
It’s true these lessons make you free
So that, one can advance to the next degree
a quest for intelligence, so that you may survive;
test the bounds of existence, to know you’re alive
living life to the fullest is what the game’s all about…
three knocks on the door and I’m out.
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“The 23rd Psalm ... Explained”
author unknown, courtesy of Companion Rance R. Bell, Sr. P.M. of George W. Williams Military Lodge No.130, on the former Rhein Main U.S. Air Force Base, Germany<
The Lord is my Shepherd
That’s Relationship!
I shall not want
That’s Supply!
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
That’s Rest!
He leadeth me beside the still waters
That’s Refreshment!
He restoreth my soul
That’s Healing!<
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
That’s Guidance!
For His name sake
That’s Purpose!
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
That’s Testing!
I will fear no evil
That’s Protection!
For Thou art with me
That’s Faithfulness!
hy rod and Thy staff they comfort me
That’s Discipline!
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
That’s Hope!
Thou annointest my head with oil
That’s Consecration!
My cup runneth over
That’s Abundance!
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
That’s Blessing!
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord
That’s Security!
Forever
That’s Eternity!
Amen ... Amen ... Amen
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“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas Down at the Lodge”
by Clayton L. Wright, Fairview Lodge No. 339 & Temple Lodge No. 676, (both of the Grand Lodge of North Carolina)
Twas the Night before Christmas, and down at the Lodge
Not a gavel was stirring, and in the hodge-podge
Of aprons and jewels and chairs East and West
You could savour the silence, most gladly divest
All metal and mineral, it mattered not,
Since Christmas was nigh and the coals were still hot
In the hearth of your homestead, all Masons abed,
As visions of trestle boards danced in their head;
When up on the roof there arose such a clatter,
Our Tyler jumped up to see what was the matter!
He picked up his sword and ran fast to the door,
Three knocks shook the panels - he wondered ‘What for?'
He answered the knocking with, raps of his own,
And once the door opened he saw, with a moan
Of delight it was Santa, all jolly and red
Except for one notable feature Instead!
Upon his large finger lie wore what we knew
Was compass and square on a background of blue!
“Why Santa!” he shouted and lowered his blade
“I see you’re a Mason!” the Tyler relayed.
He looked toward the Master’s most dignified chair
And said, voice near trembling, “Most Worshipful there
Is a Gentleman properly clothed at the gate!”
The Master replied, ‘Let’s allow him - but wait!
You tell me a Gentleman, but I don’t see
His Apron beneath that red suit, can it be
Our visitor hasn’t been properly raised?
Must we offer a test that is suitably phrased”
“I do beg your pardon,” ol’ Santa said quick
As he pulled up his coat and displayed not a stick
But a cane with, engraving, two balls did appear
And oh, what an apron, he wore and held dear!
Adorned like the Master, complete with a sign
Of “Lodge Number One, the North Pole” on one line!
“Now let man enter,” the Master declared,
And once in the Lodge room the Brethren all stared,
For Santa was wearing a jewel not seen
For many a century - there in between
The fur of his coat and the splendid red collar
Gleamed two golden reindeer that shone like a dollar!
“It’s Donner and Blitzen, who, I must confess
Are actually images brought from the West
By my Warden, a craftsman like none in the world!”
And with a great laugh from his bag he unfurled
An ear of fine corn, and some oil from the east,
“My friend I have plenty, tonight we will feast
On all that is good! We are Masons, kind sir!”
A murmur went throughout the Lodge, quite a stir,
As presents and promises flew from his sack
This Santa, a Mason, showed he had a knack
For making this Christmas the best you could glean,
And soon even Deacons were laughing, they’d seen
On this very night only happiness reigned!
This jolly Saint Nicholas quickly explained
That only a Mason could be so inclined
To make all kids happy, make all people find
A Christmas so special, yes, Santa was right!
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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Sung to George Frederick Root’s tune for J. P. Johnson’s 1865 lyrics, The Liberty Bird, the chanters of St. Bernard Commandery No. 35 premiered the song at the 1886 Triennial Conclave in Saint Louis, Missouri. Click here to view a copy of the 4-page song booklet from that event>.
Far back in the dim, distant aisle of the past,
Through the glamour which romance and poetry cast
O’er the deeds of heroes, who fought to restore
The Temple of G-d to the Christians once more,
Is seen a dark form, form whose eloquent tongue
The call to the Crusades incessantly rung.
This herald of Christendom wore no tabard,
Save a rope-knotted gown; it was old St. Bernard.
On a mountain, far up, ’mid perpetual snow,
Where the Frost King holds sway, and the wild tempests blow;
Where the avalanche, down its precipitous path,
Hurls death and destruction, like an angel of wrath;
Where the pilgrim meets death in the gaping crevasse;
And the storms wail its dirge through that lone mountain pass;
Where the paths, but the Storm King, with snow wreaths are barred,
Stands a shelter that’s named for the Monk St. Bernard.
In the broad Prairie State of the new Western World
A body of Templars, its banners unfurled;
It is named for that saint, whose perennial fame,
Like a mantle will fall, on those bearing his name;
And like him, ho taught Templars with valour to fight,
And the monks love to build, on that cold Alpine height,
O’er the faith of our fathers, keep perpetual guard,
And care for the helpless, will our St. Bernard.
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The chanters of St. Bernard Commandery No. 35 premiered the song at the 1886 Triennial Conclave in Saint Louis, Missouri. Click here to view a copy of the 4-page song booklet from that event>.
In the armoury the drill, showing woeful lack of skill,
As they try to march in column or in line;
And then to see their wheel, it would really make you feel
That the pivot man was drunk and should resign.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the lads are marching;
And though the work is hot and hard,
They cheerfully will sweat; and stick to it you may bet
For they're working like the deuce for St. Bernard.
Then there always are some cranks, that are talking in the ranks,
So the orders never can be understood,
Though the guide keeps grunting “Hep,” these smart Alecks lose the step;
And they never keep their distance as they should.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the lads are marching;
And though the work is hot and hard,
They cheerfully will sweat; and stick to it you may bet
For they're working like the deuce for St. Bernard.
When they try to dress by file, it would cause a corpse to smile
To see ‘em straggle up beyond the line
And then they shuffle back, as they try to toe a crack;
But their front is crooked as a “punkin” vine.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the lads are marching;
And though the work is hot and hard,
They cheerfully will sweat; and stick to it you may bet
For they're working like the deuce for St. Bernard.
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The chanters of St. Bernard Commandery No. 35 premiered the song at the 1886 Triennial Conclave in Saint Louis, Missouri. Click here to view a copy of the 4-page song booklet from that event>.
Hark, bugles faintly blowing,
Their echoes fainter growing;
Each tender intonation
Foretells our separation;
Farewell, farewell; Sir Knights, farewell.
Farewell, farewell; Sir Knights, farewell.
Sir Knights, thou art exemplars
Of all that’s grand in Templars;
In friendship’s deep devotion,
We chant with fond emotion,
Farewell, farewell; Sir Knights, farewell.
Till life itself shall perish,
We shall most fondly cherish
Within our recollection,
Our mutual affection.
Farewell, farewell; Sir Knights, farewell.
To chivalry and beauty,
We pay our knightly duty;
To these, ere separation,
We pledge this last libation.
Farewell, farewell; Sir Knights, farewell.
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“The Return of St. Bernard Commandery”
Published in Templar Correspondence, 1901.
Blow, Warder, blow thy sounding horn,
And thy banner wave on high,
For the Drill Corps has been to Kentucky,
And has won a victory.
Loud the Warder blew his horn,
And his banner waved on high.
Have the feast begun,
And the bells be rung,
And then eat merrily.
The Warder looked from the temple high,
As far as he could see;
I see the Knights and by their cross
They come from Kentucky.
Then loud the Warder blew his horn,
And called till he was hoarse,
Have the feast begun,
And the bells be rung,
And then eat merrily.
I see St. Bernard Knights, and on their shields
They bear a bright red cross.
Then down the Warder from the temple came,
St. Bernard knights to meet;
And when Knight Roundy he did spy
Brought lovingly did him greet.
You're welcome here, thrice welcome, knights!
For your fame's well-known to all.
Have the feast begun,
And the bells be rung,
And then eat merrily.
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by Noble Jim Glass, May 1988, courtesy of Kerbela Shriners, Knoxville, Kentucky
She stood against the window pane, and watched the children play,
How they ran and chased each other, as they do most every day.
Her heart would yearn to be with them, but her legs would not permit,
For they were warped and twisted, and always pained a bit.
But yet her heart was generous, for she quietly cheered them on,
And she would stand and watch them play until the last was gone.
But birth defects were her life’s woes, no attempt to correct them was made.
Her parents were out of money, and the doctor must be paid.
But daily she trudged on her crutches, rarely did she get out,
But begged to go to the Christmas Parade, to see if Santa was about.
Her family was willing to take her, to give her a little treat.
It was a thrill for a little girl, when she stood there on the street.
Then here they came, the big brass band, the clowns and animals too.
The motorcycles and funny cars, it thrilled her through and through.
Her hands were gripping her crutches, but the cheer was in her face.
You could tell the cold was unnoticed, as she stood there in her place.
Then here they came with fezzes bright, so proud as they passed by,
As they tossed the candy and bubble gum, they caught the watchers eye.
Then one red Fez got out of line, and walked over to the side
To greet the girl with crutches, his sympathy he could not hide.
He stooped to ask the little girl’s name, “It’s Christy, ‘Mr. Shrine’.”
She knew the Fez and who they were, an angel was his find.
He never forgot the meeting that day, the smile that Christy showed.
How she stood there on those crutches, and how her face had glowed.
Days had passed, but he never forgot, those legs didn’t match that smile.
He had to help her if he could, if it took him a little while.
And then one day the answer came, the number and name of the street
Where again he would see Miss Christy, a second time they would meet.
Now Christy stood by the window sill, as he came up the slight incline.
She yelled for mother to come and see, it was her “Mr. Shrine”.
He told the family about the work in the hospitals far and near,
And how he’d gotten an interview, and he wanted the family to hear.
The plans were made for Christy, to the hospital she would go.
There might be several trips to make before they would really know.
Once in the van, she asked “Mr. Shrine” – you could see him hide a grin.
“Do we have to buy a paper before they let me in?”
“No, my dear, that’s over now. Next year we will sell again.
Right now, let’s let them fix your legs. They’ve already said, ‘Come in.’”
There were many trips before the end, a lot of pain for Christy too,
But now she stands tall without a crutch, her legs as good as new.
As she left the final time, and told the doctors good-bye,
she stood there with that same sweet smile, as he wiped his misty eye.
“You’re just so good,” she told him, “and doctor I love you much.
You’re really like an angel; I feel it with every touch.”
Then she kissed him on the cheek, and walked out to the van.
“You won’t have to help me ‘Mr. Shrine’; this time, I know I can.”
This would be her final ride with her buddy, “Mr. Shrine”,
and she was bright and glowing, just like the warm sunshine.
For on this final ride she took, she was twelve years old by now,
And knew her cure was heaven sent, for soon she would know how.
She thanked “Mr. Shrine” so sweetly, and asked if the bill was paid.
“Oh, no, my dear, there is no bill, for one was never made.
The papers we sold have paid it all, from the hearts of all mankind,
And the money is kept ‘till we need it, by the Treasurer of the Shrine.
It’s not the Shrine that pays the bills; it’s everyone who gives,
Your family and friends and neighbourhood, and every good heart that lives.”
The trip too soon had ended, and Christy began to cry.
She knew “Mr. Shrine” would soon be gone; she didn’t want to say “Good-bye,”
but he told her now that she was cured, she could help if she wanted to try.
“Tell everyone to buy a paper,” and he waved to her good-bye.
Some years had passed, and she was grown, but thanked God everyday
For “Mr. Shrine” and the Paper Sale, and for making her well this way.
She had started to church one Sunday morn, she saw Shriners everywhere.
They were out selling papers, with that same tender, loving care.
She readied her money, a paper to buy, as she drove her car in line,
and as it came her time to pay, there stood her “Mr. Shrine”.
You could see that smile upon his face, and the tear in Christy’s eye,
For he had made life whole again, from a parade when he passed by.
Oh, “Mr. Shrine, I love you so,” as she kissed his aged face.
No matter how old she grew to be, in her heart he had a place.
Then there in church one thought she had, she knew God wouldn’t mind.
“Dear God, for now and always, please bless my ‘Mr. Shrine’.”
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“A Supplication for Crippled Children”
by Warren Grimes. Printed in J. Ed. Hart, “Unto the Least of These” A Story of the Shriners’ Hospitals for Crippled Children (Greenville, South Carolina: Board of Governors of the Shriners’ Hospital for Crippled Children, 1948), 6.
Most Gracious G-d and Lord of all the Lords,
Pity, we pray, our many tender wards;
Bless Thou our work, on which we set Thy Name,
To right the crippled feet, the broken frame,
The fragile bodies and the withered hands
Of little ones in this and other lands;
That they may grow the better to sustain
Thy Kingdom and Thine everlasting reign.
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by Noble Robert W. Pinkerton (Zenobia Shriners, Northwest Ohio), (1925-1994), courtesy of Masonic Poets Society.
I’d like to tell a story
It’s a happy episode
of a miracle that happened
to a family down the road.
They lived a block or two away.
It doesn’t matter where.
A man, his wife, and three young kids
with one in a wheelchair.
They’d go for walks and wave to us.
We’d smile and say “Hello.”
Why one was in a wheelchair,
for years, we did not know.
Another neighbour said the boy
was born with bones deformed.
They took him to a clinic where
some tests had been performed.
The doctors who examined him
said, “There are indications,
your boy may some day walk if he
has certain operations.”
Said one who diagnosed him
when the boy was only four,
“It may cost ninety thousand,
if we help him...maybe more.”
When they were told about the cost,
they knew it couldn’t be.
Those people struggled just to feed
and clothe their family.
“Why, it would take a miracle,”
said his father, “Who could spend
the money for such treatments,
that would cause his bones to mend?”
“Our hopes were all for nothing,”
cried his mother in despair,
“It looks like he will spend his life
inside that old wheelchair.”
Now a man his father worked with
was a member of the Shrine.
He said, “We’d like to help him,
And it won’t cost you a dime.”
“The hospitals,” he told him,
“that the Shriners operate,
are well equipped and proven;
So, why don’t we set a date?”
Within a month their child
was examined and accepted,
then sent for consultation
where the Shriners were connected.
With surgery and treatments
and the many years of care,
the best of specialists worked with
the famous doctors there.
His every cost was paid for;
his meals and transportation,
as well as for his parents,
there were free accommodations.
Today, that boy is seventeen.
Ten years of therapy
and at the cost of Shriners,
he now walks like you and me.
He plays with kids outside our door.
He runs and rides his bike.
I’m awed as I remember what
before, his life was like.
And he’s just one of thousands
of that burned or crippled hoard
of children who need treatments
their parents can’t afford.
The Shriners gave a new life
to this crippled boy, but then,
I know it was a miracle
from G-d through hands of men.
I’ve always known that Shriners
seemed to have a lot of fun,
but I had never realized
the noble work they’ve done.
And since I was
a witness
to this miracle divine,
I pray each night for blessings
on this boy … and on the Shrine.
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author unknown, courtesy of Zenobia Temple, Daughters of the Nile, Berwyn, Illinois, from whom you can order a copy and a lovely, accompanying pin, to support Shriners Hospitals for Children
If we can make life brighter for one lonely crippled child, If somehow these silver coins can render service mild; If we can make “one step” a little closer to the child upon the bed, Then our prayers have all been answered, no praises need be said.
If one child wouldn’t be as lonely as night befalls the air, Because he knows that in the world that someone really cares; If we can make life’s heavy burdens just a little lighter, And the long hours of the day seem just a little brighter;
If just one step along life’s way we’d help a child to bear, Or by giving of our time and love, show him that we care. If just one tear be tuned away and a smile take its place, Would be reward enough to see sunshine upon that face.
If just one leg we would help to mend and of a crutch be free, If just one child could run again and no more crippled be; Then we’ve found G-d’s meaning of the word called ‘Charity’, For when we give ourselves away, we’ve found life’s mystery.
If we shall pass this way but once, let our message read, ‘They did not neglect the chance, to help a child in need.’
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by James V. Ferris, Ph.D., alumnus of Shriners Hospitals for Children Chicago Unit; from his book, The Hospital Poems, winner of the 2004 MSR Poetry Book Award international competition
Not like a coffin, no – a long flat wooden box,
no pads, no top, to transport us round the ward, not
to the great beyond that we never talk about.
Adjustable backrest, wheelchair wheels, push yourself
around, wheelchair for those who do not fit
into wheelchairs, wheelie machine – my balance is
exquisite, if no nurses are watching
I can do laps around the ward, front wheels high
in the air, no hip spica can keep me down.
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by James V. Ferris, Ph.D., alumnus of Shriners Hospitals for Children Chicago Unit; from his book, The Hospital Poems, winner of the 2004 MSR Poetry Book Award international competition
Across Oak Park Avenue
is a city park, lush
and busy, where men play softball all
evening, too far away
to watch, their dim voices
drifting across the green. Their cars line
the streets as far
as I can see. Sammy and I,
Robert and I, Hoffmann and I call out
the makes and models
as the cars pass. Dodge Dart.
Chevy Nova. We are seldom wrong – Corvair,
Pontiac GTO – we who drive
wheelchairs and banana carts –
Mustang, VW, Rambler American – who have not yet
rounded second –
‘57 Chevy! My dad had one of those –
who watch out windows a world so soft – T-bird –
so fair – Corvette –
so normal – Ford Fairlane –
a world going on, going by, going home.
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by Noble Pete Papadogianis, and dedicated to his uncle Noble George Cepek, both of Medinah Shriners’ West Suburban Shrine Club
When I was a child of about three or four
I saw my first parade. Wow; what a bore!
That was until, by golly, there he appeared:
Not another fire truck, not an old police car, but a goofy guy in a fez and a beard.
“Hey Mom, what is that guy doing?” I did yell.
“That is your Uncle George, a Shriner ringing the bell.”
How cool was it for me? I knew of the Shrine but not what they did.
Here was The Red Fez Limited, fully festooned with a gorilla that hid.
“Look out!” we yelled, as the gorilla escaped from the cage car
And he was chased by a man with a shiny gold scimitar.
Around and around they would chase each other,
Then the gorilla went back to his cage assisted by a noble brother.
“Hey Mom, what is a Shriner and why do they parade?”
“They are men of character who enjoy to masquerade.
Their cause is children, children in need;
Born with deformities that make mothers plead.”
Those men in the funny red hats are not just crazy old men,
But are instead heroes to some much smaller than them.
Under every fez there is a man, a noble, a brother, a hero
Who finds it his mission in life to be kind to the kids, starting at zero.
No one will ever run up and give thanks for a job well done to a stranger
Unless the stranger champions the cause of saving children from danger.
We wear our fezzes and drive little old cars
To help the children thrive and live life without bars.
Our hearts are large; our go-karts are small.
We are entrusted to help children. “No man ever stood so tall...”
Those tiny tires keep rolling through many a parade.
We are the men riding on, in a noble, high brigade.
When you see that man in the fez, riding along, waving to the crowd
Remember he is there to raise awareness of our plight; to be nothing more than proud.
He is making a difference; to help a child survive, nothing can compare.
Parents need not lose hope. Do not fret. Shriners are on call. We will always be there.
Big, loud, and proud is what being a Shriner is all about.
Helping burned and crippled children is the goal we tout.
Help us by throwing us a cheer. Give us a smile.
Know why we ride those tiny tires and make this all worthwhile.
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by Noble Edgar A. Guest, courtesy of Mohammed Shriners, Peoria, Illinois
By the scimitar and crescent you wear upon your coat,
You proclaim that you’re a Shriner. It’s a sign for man to note.
It’s a symbol that your fellows have abiding faith in you.
They believe that you are worthy and they trust in all you do.
But I wonder, fellow Nobles, as I meet you here and there,
if you’ve really caught the meaning of that little badge you wear.
Are you mindful of its splendour? Are you watchful of its fame?
Are you careful as you travel, not bring it into shame?
You proclaim that you’re a Shriner; every passer-by can see
That you’ve pledged to do the right thing wheresoever you may be.
But, world-wide, your brothers suffer loss and injury from you
if you do a wrong act which a Shriner wouldn’t do.
By the token you are wearing, you’re expected to be fine.
We have taught the world it’s something to be chosen by the Shrine,
and the man who wears its emblem has his fellows’ guarantee
that a gentleman of honour he is known and pledged to be.
And if he shall fail that standard by some thoughtless word or whim.
All Shriners, wide-world over, shall be put to shame by him.
By the scimitar and crescent which so proudly you display,
you are bound to live and travel in a bigger, better way.
You must dignify the emblem, so that none whom you may meet,
be he friend or foe, may whisper that the Shrine is but a cheat.
You must play the man at all times, you must keep your conduct fair
and be worthy of the crescent and scimitar you wear.
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by Noble Ben R. Steen, 1995, courtesy of Vital Resource Productions, Inc., from whom you can order a presentable copy of this poem
When I look around
at my life in the shrine,
many things I cherish
stand out in my mind.
Hospitals for the children
who can’t run and play,
bring hope to the families,
in so many ways.
A crippled or burned child
gets first-rate care,
and there’s never a charge
for any child there.
And I’m proud of our circus,
that’s part of the shrine.
It brings out the child
in all of our minds.
I’ll stand with my brothers,
and salute our flag,
be it brand new,
or tattered and sagged.
‘Cause it’s heavily entwined,
in our lodge of blue
it stands for our freedom
and the religion we choose.
We’re from many backgrounds
and different lifestyles,
but we never stand taller
than when we stoop to help a child.
Yes, I’m proud to be a Shriner,
and I love the parades,
‘cause children’s laughter,
is what I get paid.
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by Noble Jack R. Hunt, 1995, courtesy of Harry Klitzner Company, from whom you can order a plaque inscribed with this poem
There are children today in the USA
who are crippled or burned, and in a bad way.
To mend their bodies and be made whole,
“Go see a Shriner,” their families are told.
“Where are these children?” the Shriner will ask.
“We know that our doctors are up to the task.”
So, who is this Shriner people keep talking about?
Why he’s the guy with the fez, selling stuff when he’s out.
He’ll sell you a ticket and that’s not a sin;
a Keystone Kop patch or a hillbilly pin.
He’ll sell newspapers, candy, artificial flowers, too.
G-d bless our supporters, what would we do without you?
And on parade in any given town,
he’ll entertain our children and act like a clown.
You’ll see our nobles running around with a yelp,
dressed like cowboys and Indians, thank you, Lord, for letting us help.
And thank You, G-d, for children healthy and strong.
We ask that you help us try harder for the crippled/burned child
as the parade route gets long.
The Shriner does his duty, and in his heart there’s love;
but he must have help from the giver and guidance from G-d above.
Shriners Hospitals mend our children, and this is come rain or shine.
Just look what has been accomplished with love, community help
and a great deal of our off time.
So the next time you see a Shriner out there, selling his wares,
please hand him a buck and give him a smile.
This shows that everyone cares.
Because the fight is not over and we’re aware that we still cannot stop,
we ask that you look for the guy in the fez -
you know, the one with the tassel on top.
When the Shriner’s time is over and he stands at heaven’s door,
he’ll probably sell Saint Peter a candy bar,
because he just happens to have one more.
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author unknown, courtesy of Stephen R. Greenburg, KYCH, 33°, editor of the Illinois York Rite Newsletter (in which this appeared as “The Secretary’s Dream”)
I fell asleep the other night
and, while I had my snooze,
I dreamed that each noble stepped up
and promptly paid his dues;
and when I found it was but a dream,
I nearly threw a fit.
Now, it’s up to you to make it true.
Please remit!
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author unknown, courtesy of Rance R. Bell, Sr. 33°, PM, Noble of Aswan Temple No. 115, A.E.A.O.N.M.S., in Frankfurt, Germany
Oh, luck to the duck, who swam the lake and didn’t wet a feather;
and f*ck the noble who sh*t in the street and showed his *ss to the weather.
Oh, luck to the duck, who flew over the lake,
and landed in the temple steeple, he stretched his neck and sh*t a peck
and said, “To hell with you Noble people.”
Oh, luck to the duck, who danced in the sand,
and slapped old Clyde on the *ss
He ate up the black rock,
he short circuited the hot seat,
and he sh*t in the potentate’s hand!
Now that’s a bad duck!
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author unknown, courtesy of Cabiri International Past Potentates’ Association
Once I was the Great I Am,
to whom all lesser lights salaam;
respected, honoured and obeyed,
an impressive sight when on parade.
My word was law; none dare gainsay.
My slightest wish; supreme my sway.
I was a man of high estate:
the Illustrious Potentate.
Time marches on, another day.
Another Pote holds magic sway.
There was a time; the Noble mob
could see no future in the job.
But now the Cabiri, tried and true
Past Potentates all, not raw nor new;
united for service to temple and Shrine,
that the lights of Mecca may ever shine.
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“I’m in Love With a Mystic Shriner”
by Henry B. Murtagh and Wootson Davis, the official 1920 Shrine Song, printed in Lisa Eisner, Shriners (Los Angeles: Greybull Press, 2004)
I’m in love with a mystic shriner,
no one else will do for me.
He just fills me with bliss when he gives me a kiss
with an air of mystery.
There’s something mystic in the things he does.
But I’ll solve it, wait and see.
Some night I’m going to sure surprise him,
I’ve discovered a way to hypnotize him.
After that there will be no secrets
between my mystic Shriner and me.
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by Janet Lynne Phillips, 1 March 1998, courtesy of Kerbela Shriners, Knoxville, Kentucky
A Shriner’s wife is wonderful and true;
a rare treasure to find.
She is gentle, loving and kind.
Giving to others;
never wanting anything in return.
Sharing her wisdom with others;
helping them to learn to live each day.
Walking by the Father’s side,
in His sheltering arms
From trouble, you can hide.
She always has an encouraging word
to pick you up when you’re down.
Then, she’ll flash you an outstanding smile
that will turn your gloomy day around.
She laughs with you when you’re happy.
She cries with you when you’re sad.
She’s there as an anchor of strength
when everything seems to have gone bad.
She’s a true friend.
She’ll stand by your side;
and to have her as a friend,
makes your heart swell with pride.
She’s a rare jewel, worth of praise.
In gratitude, her name should be raised.
She is there for her Shriner,
to support him in all he does;
but, most of all, she gives him her greatest gift.
She gives him love.
So, if you are friends with a Shriner’s wife,
consider yourself blessed.
Because you’ll never find a friend any better,
not in the East or West.
She’s a wonderful woman, loyal and true;
and, I’m glad that I’ve found that friend in you.
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author unknown, courtesy of Paul “Big Dog” Townsend
I hold in my hand a little scrap of paper 2½ × 3½ inches in size. It is of no intrinsic worth; not a bond, not a check or receipt for valuables, yet it is my most priceless possession. It is my membership in a Masonic lodge.
It tells me that I have entered into a spiritual kinship with my fellow Masons to practice charity in word and deed; to forgive and forget the faults of my brethren; to hush the tongues of scandal and innuendo; to care for the crippled, the hungry, and the sick, and to be fair and just to all mankind.
It tells me that no matter where I may travel in the world, I am welcome to visit a place where good fellowship prevails among brothers and friends.
It tells me that my loved ones, my home, and my household are under the protection of every member of this great fraternity, who have sworn to protect and defend mine, as I have sworn to protect and defend theirs.
It tells me that should I ever be overtaken by adversity or misfortune through no fault of my own, the hands of every Mason on the face of the earth will be stretched forth to assist me in my necessities.
And finally it tells me that when my final exit from the stage of life has been made, there will be gathered around my lifeless body friends and brothers who will recall to mind my virtues, though they be but few, and will forget my faults, though they may be many.
It tells me that and a great deal more, this little card, and makes me proud, yet humble, that I can possess this passport into a society of friends and brothers that are numbered in the millions.