Worthy of the Name of Sir Knight

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I

Sir Knight of the world's oldest order, 

Sir Knight of the Army of God, 

You have crossed the strange mystical border, 

The ground floor of truth you have trod; 

You have entered the sanctum sanctorum, 

Which leads to the temple above, 

Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one, 

In the kingdom of Friendship and Love. 

II

As you stand in this new realm of beauty, 

Where each man you meet is your friend, 

Think not that your promise of duty 

In hall, or asylum, shall end; 

Outside, in the great world of pleasure, 

Beyond, in the clamor of trade, 

In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife 

Remember the vows you have made. 

III

Your service, majestic and solemn, 

Your symbols, suggestive and sweet, 

Your uniformed phalanx in column 

On gala days marching the street; 

Your sword and your plume and your helmet, 

Your "secrets" hid from the world's sight; 

These things are the small, lesser parts of the all 

Which are needed to form the true Knight. 

IV

The martyrs who perished rejoicing 

In Templary's glorious laws, 

Who died 'midst the fagots while voicing 

The glory and worth of their cause-- 

They honored the title of "Templar" 

No more than the Knight of to-day 

Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame, 

But carries it clean through life's fray. 

V

To live for a cause, to endeavor 

To make your deeds grace it, to try 

And uphold its precepts forever, 

Is harder by far than to die. 

For the battle of life is unending, 

The enemy, Self, never tires, 

And the true Knight must slay that sly foe every day 

Ere he reaches the heights he desires. 

VI

Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning 

Of all you have heard and been told? 

Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning 

From vices and faults loved of old? 

Will you honor, in hours of temptation, 

Your promises noble and grand? 

Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong, 

"And having done all, to stand?" 

VII

Will you ever be true to a brother I

n actions as well as in creed? 

Will you stand by his side as no other 

Could stand in the hour of his need? 

Will you boldly defend him from peril, 

And lift him from poverty's curse-- 

Will the promise of aid which you willingly made, 

Reach down from your lips to your purse?

VIII

The world's battle field is before you! 

Let Wisdom walk close by your side, 

Let Faith spread her snowy wings o'er you, 

Let Truth be your comrade and guide; 

Let Fortitude, Justice and Mercy Direct all your conduct aright, 

And let each word and act tell to men the proud fact, 

You are worthy of the name of "Sir Knight".

The Parting Glass

Of all the money that e'er I had 

I spent it in good company 

And all the harm I've ever done 

Alas it was to none but me 

And all I've done for want of wit 

To mem'ry now I can't recall 

So fill to me the parting glass 

Good night and joy be to you all

So fill to me the parting glass 

And drink a health whate’er befall, 

And gently rise and softly call 

Good night and joy be to you all

Of all the comrades that e'er I had 

They're sorry for my going away 

And all the sweethearts that e'er I had 

They'd wish me one more day to stay

But since it fell unto my lot 

That I should rise and you should not 

I gently rise and softly call 

Good night and joy be to you all

A man may drink and not be drunk 

A man may fight and not be slain 

A man may court a pretty girl 

And perhaps be welcomed back again 

But since it has so ought to be 

By a time to rise and a time to fall 

Come fill to me the parting glass 

Good night and joy be with you all 

Good night and joy be with you all

Thanksgiving

By Jamie Harris Coleman

Thanksgiving should be every day

Instead of once a year. 

Give thanks each day, give thanks each night, 

To Christ who is so dear. 

Give thanks each day, give thanks each night, 

For all the Lord has done. 

He’ll help us fight our battles 

Until the victory’s won. 

Give thanks unto the Savior, 

His joyous praises sing; 

In the ears of every Christian 

Let the name of Jesus ring. 

Give thanks to Him each morning, 

Give thanks at noon and night. 

Ask Him for daily blessings, 

And stand up for the right. 

Let each day be Thanksgiving, 

For the blessings from above, 

For guidance and protection 

And His eternal love.

The Four Elements

By Anne Bradstreet

The Fire, Air, Earth and water did contest 

Which was the strongest, noblest and the best, 

Who was of greatest use and might'est force; 

In placide Terms they thought now to discourse, 

That in due order each her turn should speak; 

But enmity this amity did break 

All would be chief, and all scorn'd to be under 

Whence issu'd winds & rains, lightning & thunder 

The quaking earth did groan, the Sky lookt black 

The Fire, the forced Air, in sunder crack; 

The sea did threat the heav'ns, the heavn's the earth, 

All looked like a Chaos or new birth: 

Fire broyled Earth, & scorched Earth it choaked 

Both by their darings, water so provoked 

That roaring in it came, and with its source 

Soon made the Combatants abate their force 

The rumbling hissing, puffing was so great 

The worlds confusion, it did seem to threat 

Till gentle Air, Contention so abated 

That betwixt hot and cold, she arbitrated 

The others difference, being less did cease 

All storms now laid, and they in perfect peace 

That Fire should first begin, the rest consent, 

The noblest and most active Element.

I Sat In Lodge With You

By Wilbur D. Nesbit

There is a saying filled with cheer, 

Which calls a man to fellowship. 

It means as much for him to hear 

As lies within the brother grip. 

Nay, more! It opens wide the way 

To friendliness sincere and true 

There are no strangers when you say 

To me: I sat in lodge with you. 

When that is said, then I am known 

There is no questioning nor doubt 

I need not walk my path alone 

Nor from my fellows be shut out. 

Those words hold all of brotherhood 

And help me face the world anew 

There's something deep and rich and good 

In this: I sat in lodge with you. 

Though in far lands one needs must roam 

By sea and shore and hill and plain, 

Those words bring him a touch of home 

And lighten tasks that seem in vain. 

Men's faces are no longer strange 

But seem as those he always knew 

When some one brings the joyous change 

With this: I sat in lodge with you. 

So you, my brother, now and then 

Have often put me in your debt 

By showing forth to other men 

That you your friends do not forget. 

When all the world seems gray and cold 

And I am weary, worn and blue 

Then comes this golden thought I hold 

You said: I sat in lodge with you. 

When to the last great Lodge you fare 

My prayer is that I may be 

One of your friends who wait you there 

Intent your smiling face to see. 

We, with the warden at the gate, 

Will have a pleasant task to do 

We'll call, though you come soon or late: 

Come in! We sat in lodge with you!

Mason Marks

By Author Unknown

They're traced in lines on the Parthenon, 

Inscribed by the subtle Greek 

And Roman legions have carved them on 

Walls, roads and arch antique 

Long ere the Goth, with vandal hand, 

Gave scope to his envy dark, 

The Mason craft in many a land 

Has graven its Mason mark.

The obelisk old and the pyramids, 

Around which a mystery clings,- 

The Hieroglyphs on the coffin lids 

Of weird Egyptian kings,

Syria, Carthage and Pompeii, 

Buried and strewn and stark, 

Have marble records that will not die, 

Their primitive Mason mark.

Upon column and frieze and capital, 

In the eye of the chaste volute,- 

On Scotia's curve, or an astrogal, 

Or in triglyp's channel acute,- 

Cut somewhere on the entablature, 

And oft, like a sudden spark, 

Flashing a light on a date obscure, 

Shines many a Mason mark.

These craftsmen old had a genial whim, 

That nothing could ever destroy, 

With a love of their art that naught could dim, 

They toiled with a chronic joy 

Nothing was too complex to essay, 

In aught they dashed to embark 

They triumphed on many an Appian Way, 

Where they'd left their Mason mark.

Crossing the Alps like Hannibal, 

Or skirting the Pyranees, 

On peak and plain, in crypt and cell, 

On foot or on bandaged knees- 

From Tiber to Danube, from Rhine to Seine, 

They needed no letters of marque- 

Their art was their passport in France and Spain, 

And in Britain their Mason mark.

The monolith gray and Druid chair, 

The pillars and towers of Gael, 

In Ogharn occult their age they bear, 

That time can only reveal. 

Live on, old monuments of the past, 

Our beacons through ages dark! 

In primal majesty still you'll last, 

Endeared by each Mason mark.

They All Came Just for Me

By Richard L. Jenkins

Something big is going on here. 

Or so I thought that night, 

As the Masons came to gather round 

the Great and lesser lights. 

One from here and one from there 

From places far and wide, 

They came to do, I knew not what, 

As they gathered there inside. 

But from each man I was greeted 

With a smile and voice of cheer. 

One said, so you're the candidate. 

The reason that we're here. 

I scarcely knew just what he meant, 

For this was my first degree. 

There must be much for them to do 

Before they got to me. 

Surely these guys would not travel 

for the sake of just one man. 

Yes, there must be much for them to do, 

Before my part began. 

The Brother Tiler was my company 

As I waited at the door 

To step into this brand new realm 

I had not known before. 

They shared with me the three Great Lights 

and some tools of the trade, 

That I might learn a thing or two 

of how a man be better made. 

When at last I had been seated 

In this brotherhood of men 

The Master then began to bring 

The meeting to an end. 

And with all things then completed, 

They stayed a little more, 

To eat and drink and share a laugh 

Before heading toward the door. 

But as we left I understood 

And then began to see. 

That they all came for one reason. 

They all came just for me. 

Dear brothers I pray every lodge 

Will make new ones like me, 

Feel as welcome as these brothers did, 

When they held my First Degree

Beautiful Stone of the Masonic Arch

By Rob Morris

If I were the Master Grand, 

If I were the King of Judah now, 

And of that sage Tyrian band 

Who wore the cockle shell on the brow, 

I'll tell you what I'd do: 

I'd choose my brightest Parian rock, 

No flaw or crevice in the block, 

And right above the ivory throne, 

I'd set the beautiful stone, 

The beautiful, beautiful stone.

I'd take from Lebanon the trees, 

The cedars fragrant, tall and fair, 

And hardened by the centuries. 

And them to the Mount I'd bear 

Hiram should them prepare. 

From Ophir's golden sands I'd drain 

The yellow, choice and glitt'ring grain, 

And these in mystic form should crown 

The white and beautiful stone, — 

The beautiful, beautiful stone.

Then unto every shrine I'd go, 

To every lorn and humble grave, 

And all the prayers and tears that flow 

From women meek, and manhood brave, 

And orphan lone, I'd have 

Prayers for sweet incense should arise, 

And holy tears for sacrifice 

I'm sure that God Himself would own 

And bless the beautiful stone, — 

The beautiful, beautiful stone.

This beautiful stone, its name should be 

Each loving Mason loves it well, 

'Tis writ in glory, — Charity, — 

Best word the earth can tell, 

Best word the heavens can tell 

Above the ivory throne so bright, — 

Were I the Master Grand to-night, 

Where God and man alike would own 

I'd set the beautiful stone, 

The beautiful, beautiful stone.

A Mason's Wife

From active Masons, resolute, 

Our wives and families we salute; 

We surely know the price you 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 home alone tonight. 

Masonic papers list our names, 

Awards are given, fit to frame; 

But yours is absent...you who strive, 

To keep our fortitude alive. 

You're part of every helpful deed, 

On your encouragement we feed; 

Without your blessings, how could we, 

Continue acts of charity? 

And so, this poem, we dedicate, 

To every Master Mason's mate; 

And offer our undying love, 

Rewards await in Heaven above

The Royal Art

By Silas H. Shepherd

Thou, Royal Art, in splendor clothed 

By verse and learned orator extolled 

What is thy power o′er men so frail? 

Where is thy wisdom ne′er assailed?

Is it in mystic rites and form 

Or legends to which all conform, 

That men find satisfaction rare, 

And in it's ceremonies share?

It never could the wise attract 

By mystic rite or tragic act 

Did not some power in secret lie 

Hidden from all but worthy eye.

Its secret most profound and rare 

All worthy men may likewise share. 

It welcomes men with motives pure 

It helps to make their lives secure.

It feeds, with Truth, the hungry soul 

It lights the darkness to the goal, 

Where Father waits His souls to meet, 

Who as a brother fellows greet.

It clears the air of doubt and fear, 

It gives to life delight and cheer, 

It makes the Brotherhood of Man 

A consummation of His Plan.

The Light in the Temple

By Carl W. Mason

In the ancient days of story, 

When the fathers sought the light, 

And the temple's golden glory 

Blazed on old Moriah's height 

Deep within the sacred portals 

Of that holy house of prayer, 

Thrilling awed and trembling mortals, 

Burned a mystic brightness there.

Day and night its glow extended 

Thru the calm religious gloom, 

While the long-robed priests attended 

In the consecrated room. 

'Twas the pure Shekineh gleaming,- 

Symbol of the eternal God, 

As His light, 'mid darkness beaming, 

Dwells within the human clod.

Tell me, brother, as you travel 

On the rugged earthly way, 

Should the Master Builder's gavel 

Sound your final call today 

As your weary feet are turning 

At the summons to depart, 

Can you find the God-light burning 

In the temple of your heart?

Could you find the clear rays brightly 

Showing a record called Well done,- 

Telling good deeds wrought uprightly, 

Battles fought and victories won? 

Has the pure divine example 

Been for you the better part, 

Safely lodged within the temple 

Of a true Masonic heart?

Let your willing hands be doing 

Daily for a brother's needs, 

Thus the sacred flame renewing 

With the oil of kindly deeds. 

Keep your temple swept and garnished 

With your tenets' rule divine, 

And your light, its ray untarnished, 

Thru the night will ever shine.

The Beacon Light

By Rob Morris

A city set upon a hill 

Cannot be hid 

Exposed to every eye, it will 

Over surrounding plain and vale, 

An influence shed, 

And spread the light of peace afar, 

Or blight the land with horrid war. 

Each Mason's Lodge is planted so 

For high display 

Each is a BEACON LIGHT, to show 

Life's weary wanderers as they go, 

The better way 

To show by ties of earthly love, 

How perfect is the Lodge above! 

Be this your willing task, dear friends, 

While laboring here 

Borrow from Him who kindly lends 

The heavenly ladder that ascends 

The higher sphere 

And let the world your progress see, 

Upward by FAITH, HOPE, CHARITY

I'm Ready For My Last Degree

By Author Unknown

An old man lay sick in the Masonic Home, 

His face was as ashen as the white sea foam, 

His eyes were dim, his hair was gray, 

His back was bent with the trials of the way, 

He falteringly spoke, but I heard him say, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

I've come to the end of the level of time 

That leads us to that Grand Lodge sublime, 

From whose borne none ever return, 

More light in Masonry there I shall learn 

By an altar where light shall evermore shine, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

With the Apprentice's gauge, I've divided my time 

Into equal parts since life's early prime. 

And this I have found amidst life's great turmoil, 

My wages are due me, in corn, wine and oil, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

Each day from life's quarries, I've hewn a stone, 

With the gavel I've shaped them, each one alone, 

And shipped them along beyond that bright stand, 

To build me a house in that fair land, 

A spiritual house not made with hands, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

I've squared each stone by the virtue square, 

And plumbed them all true, as I shipped them there, 

With the compass I've measured the Master's designs 

And kept within due bounds, with his points and his signs, 

My blueprints are folded, I've answered his signs, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

The mortar I've made from friendship and love, 

To be spread with the Master's trowel up above, 

My apron is worn, but it's surface is white, 

My working tools will now be cold and quiet 

My trestle board's bare, and I'm going tonight, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

A few moments later the old man was dead, 

And I fancy that I could see his soul as it fled, 

Upward and onward, to the great door, 

Where he gave an alarm, and a voice did implore, 

The old man gave his answer with words once more, 

I'm ready for my last degree. 

That night in a Lodge, free from all strife and storm, 

He took that degree, his last in due form, 

So may I live like he did, to build day by day, 

A spiritual house, in that land far away, 

So, when I meet my Grand Master I can say, 

I'm ready for my last degree.

To Autumn

By John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,– 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

The 34th Degree

by Paul V. Marshall, Sr.

Your time on Earth, spent in service.

A shining example of a Man to be.

But, you're now needed in the Heavenly Lodge.

Time has come for your 34th Degree.

Leaving behind the ones you Love.

Are the dues that you must pay.

From afar, you can watch over them.

A part of your obligation this day.

This is the farthest you can go.

The highest point of Masonic Life.

No higher an honor can be sown.

In God's Lodge, you must now stride.

God in the East, King Solomon, the West.

They open the Lodge for you this day.

You go the way as Masons before.

To sit with Pride, and stand with Praise.

The Alter shows the Love you felt.

Brotherhood of Man, One and All.

Your deeds reflect like shining Gold.

The jewel you wear is none too small.

You now stand, before this Alter.

Deserving of the rest you now seek.

No longer to toil the labors of life.

Grand Masters' wages are yours to keep.

Those of us you've left behind.

Will carry on the work for you.

Your dedication will shine for all.

A memorial you leave for all to view.

So, gather your wages, rest for now.

Lay back in the shade of Gods' great tree.

You've earned the honor, now bestowed.

MASONS in HEAVEN, THE 34th DEGREE.

St. John Baptist

By Thomas Merton

I

When, for the fifteenth year, Tiberius Caesar

Cursed, with his reign, the Roman world, 

Sharing the Near-East with a tribe of tetrarchs, 

The Word of God was made in far-off province: 

Deliverance from the herd of armored cattle, 

When, from the desert, John came down to Jordan.

But his prophetic messages 

Were worded in a code the scribes were not prepared to understand. 

Where, in their lexicons, was written: “Brood of vipers,” 

Applied, that is, to them?

“Who is this Lamb, Whose love 

Shall fall upon His people like an army: 

Who is this Savior, Whose sandal-latchet 

This furious Precursor is afraid to loose?”

His words of mercy and of patience shall be flails 

Appointed for the separation of the wheat and chaff. 

But who shall fear the violence 

And crisis of His threshing-floor 

Except the envious and selfish heart? 

Choose to be chaff, and fear the Winnower, 

For then you never will abide His Baptism of Fire and Spirit. 

You proud and strong, 

You confident in judgment and in understanding, 

You who have weighed and measured every sin 

And have so clearly analyzed the prophecies 

As to be blinded on the day of their fulfillment: 

Your might shall crumble and fall down before Him like a wall, 

And all the needy and the poor shall enter in, 

Pass through your ruins, and possess your kingdom.

This is the day that you shall hear and hate 

The voice of His beloved servant. 

This is the day your scrutiny shall fear 

A terrible and peaceful angel, dressed in skins, 

Knowing it is your greedy eyes, not his, that die of hunger. 

For God has known and loved him, from his mother’s womb, 

Remembering his name, filling his life with grace, 

Teaching him prophecy and wisdom, 

To burn before the Face of Christ, 

Name Him and vanish, like a proclamation.

II

Tell us, Prophet, Whom you met upon the far frontier 

At the defended bridge, the guarded outpost.

“I passed the guards and sentries, 

Their lances did not stay me, or the gates of spikes 

Or the abysses of the empty night. 

I walked on darkness

To the place of the appointed meeting: 

I took my sealed instructions, 

But did not wait 

For compliment or for congratulation from my hidden Captain. 

Even at my return 

I passed unseen beside the stern defenders 

In their nests of guns, 

And while the spies were trying to decode some secret 

In my plain, true name. 

I left them like the night wind.”

What did you learn on the wild mountain 

When hell came dancing on the noon-day rocks?

“I learned my hands could hold 

Rivers of water 

And spend them like an everlasting treasure. 

I learned to see the waking desert 

Smiling to behold me with the springs her ransom, 

Open her clear eyes in a miracle of transformation, 

And the dry wilderness 

Suddenly dressed in meadows, 

All garlanded with an embroidery of flowering orchards 

Sang with a virgin’s voice, 

Descending to her wedding in these waters 

With the Prince of Life. 

All barrenness and death lie drowned 

Here in the fountains He has sanctified, 

And the deep harps of Jordan 

Play to the contrite world as sweet as heaven.”

But did your eyes buy wrath and imprecation

In the red cinemas of the mirage?

“My eyes did not consult the heat of the horizon: 

I did not imitate the spurious intrepidity 

Of that mad light full of revenge. 

God did not hide me in the desert to instruct my soul 

In the fascism of as asp or scorpion. 

The sun that burned me to an Arab taught me nothing: 

My mind is not in my skin. 

I went into the desert to receive 

The keys of my deliverance 

From image and from concept and from desire. 

I learned not wrath but love, 

Waiting in darkness for the secret stranger 

Who, like an inward fire, 

Would try me in the crucibles of His unconquerable Law: 

His heat, more searching than the breath of the Simoon, 

Separates love from hunger 

And peace from satiation, 

Burning, destroying all the matrices of anger and revenge. 

It is because my love, as strong as steel, is armed against all hate 

That those who hate their own lives fear me like a sabre.”

III

St. John, strong Baptist, 

Angel before the face of the Messiah 

Desert-dweller, knowing the solitudes that lie 

Beyond anxiety and doubt, 

Eagle whose flight is higher than our atmosphere 

Of hesitation and surmise, 

You are the first Cistercian and the greatest Trappist: 

Never abandon us, your few but faithful children, 

For we remember your amazing life, 

Where you laid down for us the form and pattern of 

Our love for Christ, 

Being so close to Him you were His twin. 

Oh buy us, by your intercession, in your mighty heaven, 

Not your great name, St. John, or ministry, 

But oh, your solitude and death: 

And most of all, gain us your great command of graces, 

Making our poor hands also fountains full of life and wonder 

Spending, in endless rivers, to the universe, 

Christ, in secret, and His Father, and His sanctifying Spirit.