From "The Poetry Of Freemasonry" by Rob Morris
Resting in calm repose,
The fiercest blast that blows
And bows yon sturdy oaks on Bashan's height,
Can yield no influence here;
For many and many a year
Hath "slept in Jesus" this our stalwart Knight.
While rust corrodes his great cross-hilted sword,
The toil-spent Templar rests before the Lord.
He heard an inward call, —
"Leave home, leave country, all
That love you or are loved, — leave wealth and fame,
And with this ruddy Cross,
Count other things but dross,
To go and battle in your Master's name!
There, where I walked in early clays with men,
Go, I will meet you, striving there, again!"
Meekly he rose and went;
His hard-earned fortune spent
In the high cause for which he took the sword
He chose the lowliest place;
For nothing can abase
The servant when he imitates his Lord.
Yet where the strokes fell thickest midst the din
He listened, yearning for that voice again.
And here the Templar fell; Battling full long and well;
He fell beneath the point of Paynim spear;
But to his dying eye The Master's form drew nigh,
The Master's whisper blest his dying ear; —
"Well done, true Knight, inherit thy reward!
The servant is not greater than his Lord!"