. . . the Builders
A Riddle
by Bro. Friedrich von Schiller
There is a Mansion vast and fair,
That doth on unseen pillars rest;
No Wanderer leaves the portals there,
Yet each how brief a guest!
The craft by which that mansion rose,
No thought can picture to the soul;
Tis lighted by a Lamp which throws
Its stately shimmer through the whole.
As crystal clear, it rears aloof
The single gem which forms its roof,
And never have the eye surveyed
The Master who that Mansion made.
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My Ashlar
by Bro. George H. Free
O, Master Builder, here I bring
This ashlar as my offering-
This block entrusted to my care-
O, try it by thy faultless square.
Prove Thou the stone which I have brought,
Judge Thou the task my hands have wrought-
My hands unskilled! Ah, much I fear
Their work imperfect shall appear.
See, Master, here are corners rough
Which marred the stone, so stubborn, tough,
They long withstood my gavel's blow;
What toil they cost, Thou mayest know.
My zeal I own did often swoon
Ere from the ashlar they were hewn;
(Ah, vice and habit, conquered now,
With agony you wrung my brow.)
Crushed by the load of guilt I bear,
O, Master, look on my despair,
For where was drawn Thy fair design
My plan appears in many a line.
Hot tears, alas, cannot efface
The flaws which speak of my disgrace;
To late the mischief to undo,
My ashlar I submit to you.
O, Master, grant this boon to me;
Unworthy though my stone may be,
Cast it not utterly away,
But let it rest beside the way
Where its grave flaws may warning be
To him who follows after me.
If he thereby my faults may shun,
I'll feel some grain of worth I've won.
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The Building Code
by Bro. Montford C. Holley
Our ancient brethern used their tools
With confidence and skill;
Though centuries have passed away,
Their works are standing still;
With admiration and with awe,
Our hearts and souls they thrill.
They called in Wisdom to conceive
And execute the plan;
Then Strength to make the structure sure
When first the work began;
The Beauty to adorn and make
A monument to man;
So we, who build in later days,
Still use the self-same tools,
Still follow through the Master-Plan,
Still use the self-same rules,
Still work with diligence and skill,
As did the Ancient Schools;
Would use the Plumb for rectitude
As day by day goes by,
The Level to remind us all
That we must lowly be,
That right and true our work may prove
When we the Square apply;
No longer work with wood and stone,
But rather, with the mind
We would erect a dwelling-place
Wherein our souls may find
A quiet and a holy rest
At peace with all mankind;
And so, as we continually build
These buildings for the soul,
Would work with Wisdom and with Strength
Perchance to reach the goal;
Then crown our work with Beauty rare
To make the perfect whole.
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The Work Divine
by Bro. George H. Free
Conceited man, whose empty boast
Is that thy works shall live for aye,
Behold the ruin of the host
Who wrought like thee, but won decay!
Proud Babel's tower, vanished, quite;
The crumbling sphinx and pyramid
In vain attest their builder's might
For e'en their names from us are hid.
No marvel that those ruins stand,
Slow crumbling in decrepit shame;
The wonder is, though wisely planned,
How brief indeed their builder's fame.
How puny are the deeds of man,
When to creation's works compared;
How transitory is their span,
Their plan how weak, when time is bared.
Consider Him whose hand has hung
Those orbs on high, thy steps to lead,
His sparkling stardust broadcast flung,
Like a sower cast his seed;
Who set the bounds for ocean's tide,
Commanded mountains, Stand ye here,
Unrolled the boundless prairies wide,
And fixed the seasons of the year.
Vain creature, hang thy head in shame!
Behold the heaven's vaulted bowl;
There read thy great Creator's fame
Inscribed upon its blazing scroll.
The firmament displays His skill,
Through far-flung space his glories shine.
Ye proud bombastic lips be still
Behold the works of One divine!
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The Laying of the Cornerstone
by Bro. Russell J. McLauchlin
The symbol of a stalwart faith thou art,
Firm set and sure, for ages there to stand,
At once the token of a cunning hand,
And of the consecrated, faithful heart;
To those who follow us shalt thou impart
Some knowledge of the tasks this day fulfilled,
And of the men that wrought it, wise and skilled,
Their mem'ry shall their presence ever start;
O stone, thou art an altar, on thee rears
A Temple, standing wondrous in the sun,
A Lesson unto all the coming years
Of faithfulness to work today begun,
And on thee, raised in glory, there appears
All Wisdom, Strength and Beauty, joined in one.
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The Road of Masonry
by Bro. Douglas Malloch
Men built 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 currents 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 humanity
The hearts of men are thrilled.
This music makes their labor 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 Then,
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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The Builder
by Bro. Herbert N. Farrar
I built my house on the Sands of Time,
A house that I built to stay;
But the tide came in- as the tide will come,
And it washed the sands away.
Then my house fell down, as a house will fall,
And hope went out with the tide,
But I built again, as a man will build,
If he be a man of pride.
Then came the storm with the fierce whirlwind,
And my house was wrecked again.
And I stood and looked at my labor lost,
And it all seemed so in vain.
But I built again in another place-
Where the storm and the tide came not,
And I felt safe in my new strong house-
But one thing I forgot.
It was the flames with their red-hot tongues,
That came in the still of the night,
And they ate it up- as the flames will eat,
Though I strove with all my might.
And again I looked at the house that was,
Then knew it was not to be,
For a well built house won't fall three times,
When built for eternity.
Now why should I build a house three times,
And why should it three times fall?
Were it better I build a house that falls
Than never to build at all?
Then came a thought from the Great Somewhere,
I had not followed the rules,
For a well built house won't fall three times,
When built with the Master's tools.
So I built again with the Master's tools,
The Level, the Plumb and the Square,
Each ashlar hewn from the Rock of Faith
Was polished and laid with care;
And the plans I used were the Plans of Life
And my house it faced the sun,
Now I dwell therein as a man should dwell,
When the Craftsman's work's well done.
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Our Temple
by Bro. Charles Clyde Hunt
When our Temple of earth has been finished
And our tools have been laid aside,
When the sound of the gavel is silenced,
And on earth we no longer reside,
We shall rise at the Word of the Master,
And remember the way that we grew,
As the Master of All Good Workmen
Shall put us to work anew.
And the faithful there shall be happy,
As they sit near the Golden East
When the gifted shall scorn not the dullard,
But aid both the great and the least.
We shall have real Masons to teach us,
Solomon, Hiram and Paul.
Whose lives have been squared by their service,
As they gave to us of their all.
We there will build a new Temple,
Reflecting the will of our God,
Its portals be easy to enter,
For love is its entering rod.
Then each brother shall work without ceasing
For the God whose dealings are square,
He will build the Temple of greatness
For the God who in all things is fair.
And only the Master shall praise us,
And only the Master shall blame,
And each for the love that is in him,
With never a thought of fame,
Shall build his part of the Temple,
With care for each detail,
That will raise a perfect structure,
A work that will never fail.
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King Solomon's Temple
by Bro. Charles Clyde Hunt
There's a Temple of God in tales of the past,
I see through the mists of historical years.
And my heart through the veil of its mysteries vast
Is filled with the vision of numberless spheres,
Revealing my failure to build temples to last
Through the age after age that before me appears.
With the stars of my God ever shining above,
And the tools of my calling at hand,
I will build me a temple of glorious love,
With the arch of my Masonry spanned.
And the spirit of God coming down from above
Will comfort my soul with His hand.
There's a mountain of God in each of our hearts
For that temple's enduring base.
And the work we may do by a Mason's arts
Will this solid foundation embrace.
And within it's a spirit that never departs
Nor will ever the temple disgrace.
Through the beautiful aisles of the glorious past
Will its wonderful harmonies swell,
When the dead shall rise at Gabriel's blast
From the grave's most darkening cell.
Then the lot of the true will no longer be cast
With the false he ought to repel.
"The cedars of Lebanon grow at our door,
The quarries are found at our gate,
The ships out of Ophir with golden ore,
For our summoning mandate wait."
Then let us get busy (day soon'll be o'er)
And the house of our soul we'll create.
While the light is still with us, the light should be used
For the night we cannot control.
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
Or be broken the golden bowl.
May we build the Temple we never can lose
For the dwelling place of our soul.
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The Man With the Hoe
by Bro. Edwin Markham
God made man in His own image
In the image of God He made him. -- Genesis
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this--
More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed--
More filled with signs and portents for the soul--
More packed with danger to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rife of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world,
A protest that is also prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quencht?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, Immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings--
With those who shaped him to the thing he is--
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world,
After the silence of the centuries?
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The Temple- What Makes It Of Worth?
by Bro. Edgar A. Guest
You may delve down to rock for your foundation piers,
You may go with your steel to the sky;
You may purchase the best of the thought of the years,
And the finest of workmanship buy.
You may line with the rarest of marble each hall,
And with gold you may tint it; but then
It is only a building if it, after all,
Isn't filled with the spirit of men.
You may put up a structure of brick and of stone,
Such as never was put up before;
Place there the costliest woods that are grown,
And carve every pillar and door.
You may fill it with splendors of quarry and mine,
With the glories of brush and pen-
But it's only a building, though ever so fine,
If it hasn't the spirit of men.
You may build such structure that lightning can't harm,
Or one that an earthquake can't raze;
You may build it of granite and boast that its charm
Shall last to the end of all days.
But you might as well never have builded at all,
Never cleared off the bog and the fen,
If, after it's finished, its sheltering wall
Doesn't stand for the spirit of men.
For it isn't the marble , nor is it the stone,
Nor is it the columns of steel,
By which is the worth of an edifice known;
But it's something that's LIVING and REAL.
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The Mason's Holy House
By Brother Albert Pike
We have a Holy House to build,
A Temple splendid and divine
To be with glorious memories filled;
Of Right and Truth to be the Shrine;
How shall we build it strong and fair
This Holy House of praise and prayer
Firm set and solid, grandly great?
How shall we all its rooms prepare
For use, for ornament, for State?
Our God hath given the wood and stone
And we must fashion them aright,
Like those who toiled on Lebanon,
Making the labor their delight;
This House, this palace, this God's Home,
This Temple with its lofty dome,
Must be in all proportions fit
That heavenly messengers may come
To lodge with those who tenant it.
Build squarely upon the stately walls
The two symbolic columns raise,
And let the lofty courts and halls
With all their golden glories blaze
There, in the Kadosh Kadoshim,
Between the broad-winged cherubim,
Where the Shekinah once abode
The heart shall raise its daily hymns
Of gratitude and love to God.
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The Builders
By Brother Charles F. Forshaw, M.D., Baltimore House, Bradford, England,
August 14th, 1916
(From Masonic Sun, Toronto, Canada, October, 1916)
If in the rearing of an edifice
We form one stone that makes the perfect whole;
To us 'twould be the beau-ideal of bliss
And prove glad unction to the work-worn soul.
A Temple with proportions just and true
Can but erected be by Masons skilled,
Instructed by an Architect who knew
Exactly how to tell them what to build.
And he taught us -- however small the stone --
To plumb and level by the' unerring Square --
To make it pattern, so that all might own
'T was strong and beautiful beyond compare, --
With Chisel and with Gavel we have wrought
To gain "Well Done,"-- The Tongue of Good Report.
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Building
By Douglas Malloch
Brick by brick the Masons builded
Till the highest cross was gilded
With the glory of the sun,
Till the noble task was done.
Step by step and one by one
Wall and rafter, roof and spire
Men were lifting ever higher,
Not in some mysterious way --
With the tasks of every day.
Architects may do their dreaming,
See their visioned turrets gleaming
High above them in the skies;
Yet the wisdom of the wise
Cannot make one roof arise --
Hearts must work beside his neighbor,
Brick on brick and toil on toil
Building upward from the soil.
So we build a lodge or nation,
On the firmly fixed foundation
Of a flag or craft or creed;
But on top of that we need
Many a noble thought and deed,
Day by day and all the seven,
Building slowly up to heaven,
Till our lives the lives shall seem
Of the Master Builder's dream.
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In Time of Dedication
By Wilbur D. Nesbit
Now Solomon built him a temple fair, in praise of the Lord his God,
Built with the plumb and level, and the compass and meting rod;
And Hiram brought him his handy men to labor in brass and wood,
And Solomon looked on their craftsmanship and vowed that it all was good.
Pillars they set in the porchway there, two pillars of stately grace;
Jachin and Boaz named he them, and set them within the place;
Chapiters wrought with cunning hands, checkering net and wreath,
With wonderful carven pomegranates, and bases to rest beneath.
And Solomon stood at the altar then, and lifted his hands to pray;
"Lord, let Thine eyes be toward this house, be toward it night and day --
Be with us as Thou wert of ancient times to all our fathers known;
May all of our thoughts and words and deeds do honor to Thee alone!"
So Solomon built him a temple then -- and deep in the dust of years
Are scattered the pillars and brazen work, but he who is faithful hears
The word that the Lord spake to Solomon, the promise He gave him then:
"I have hallowed the house which thy men have built to gladden the eyes of
men."
Today let us pray as Solomon prayed, that our temple may stand alway:
"Lord, let Thin eyes be toward our house, be toward it night and day,
For it is far more than the work of our hands, thou solid and vast it seems --
For part of it is our hope and faith, and part of it is our dreams.
"And part of it is our trust in Thee, and fairest of all this house
Is what we have held in our heart of hearts when voicing our sacred vows.
The temple men see is all rich and strong, and beautiful as it stands,
But over and in and through it, is the temple not built with hands.
"So here do we pledge the grace of all our minds and our souls have
wrought,
As Hiram inspired all his handy men with knowledge that he was taught.
The work of our hands and the work of our lives we pledge unto Thee, and then
We trust in the strength of the pillars twain, forever, and aye. Amen."
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The Death of the Master
By H.L. Haywood
A crime made red the gates! Then turmoil broke
Across the men who wrought with plumb and square;
They huddled round the Pillars, Porch and Stair
And cried with anguished breath, "Our strength is smoke
Now he is gone; for who can now invoke
The guiding light of Wisdom's Secret Word!" Despair
Benumbed the hands that sought to labor there
And dust hung round the Temple like a cloak.
And I, these ages after, feel the guilt!
For I it was who slew within my heart
By ruffian sloth and greed the Master's Word!
Where stands the Temple now? In dust and silt
Its secret buried lies, and all its art
Looks mocking at me from my Trestle Board.
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God's Freemasonry
By H.L. Haywood (From The Builder, Anamosa, Iowa, December, 1918)
Here in a lodge of pines I sit;
The canopy thrown over it
Is heaven's own very blue;
Due east and west its precincts lie
And always the all-seeing eye
Of summer's sun is shining through.
Its portals open to the west;
The chipmunk, gray and sober dressed,
The tyler is: You see him dodge
To challenge every new alarm:
He has no sword upon his arm
But well he guards this secret lodge.
Our master is that giant pine
Who bends o'er us with mien divine
To keep the lodge in order trim:
His wardens are two gray-beard birch
Who sit like elders in a church
Or make decorous bows to him.
The deacons are two slender trees,
Who move about whene'er the breeze
Brings orders from the master's seat;
Our organist? Where thickest glooms
Are darkening in the pine top's plumes
The brother winds our music beat.
Whoever knocks upon the door
To learn the ancient wildwood lore,
That one he is our candidate:
We strip him of his city gear,
And meet him on the level here,
Then to our ways initiate.
We slip the hoodwink from his eye
And bid him look on earth and sky
To read the hieroglyphs there;
More ancient these than Golden Fleece
Or Roman Eagle, Tyre, or Greece,
Or Egypt old beyond compare.
On grass and stone and flower and sod
Is written down by the hand of God
The secrets of this Masonry;
Who has the hood wink from his eyes
May in these common things surprise
The awful signs of Deity.
Here bird and plant and man and beast
Are seeking their Eternal East:
And here in springtime may be heard,
By him who doth such teachings seek
With praying heart, and wise, and meek,
The thundering of the old Lost Word.
All things that in creation are
From smallest fly to largest star,
In this fellowship may be
For all that floweth out from Him,
From dust to man and seraphim
Belong to God's freemasonry.
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My Temple
By George H. Free
"Build me a temple," the Master said,
"Fashion each block with care;
Stones for my house I have placed at hand,
More will be furnished at your demand,
See that you build it as I have planned --
Build it surpassing fair."
Tools for my task He has given me --
Tools for my every need;
Gavel and trowel and plumb and square,
Level and gauge, an equipment rare,
Implements perfect beyond compare,
Meet for my work indeed.
Plans He has drawn on my trestleboard --
Worthy designs and plain:
Foundation firm, based on faith secure,
Sanctum sanctorum, a heart kept pure,
Dome, seat of reason, a fortress sure --
Plans for a noble fane.
How am I doing my Master's work --
What of my zeal and skill?
How will my shrine with His plans compare?
Will it prove true by His perfect square --
Fitting abode for His presence fair --
How do I work God's will?
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Am I A Builder?
The true title and author of this piece are unknown. However, this verse was
quoted by M:W: Dean C. Mabry, the Grand Master of Colorado, in his address to
the 111th Annual Communication of the G.L. of Colorado AF&AM, January 24th and
25th, 1972.
I watched them tearing a building down,
A gang of men in a busy town.
With a ho-heave-ho and a lusty yell,
They swung a beam and the sides fell.
I asked the foreman, "Are these men skilled
And the kind you would hire, if you had to build?"
And he gave a laugh and said, No indeed,
Just common labor is all I need.
I can easily wreck in a day or two
What other builders have taken a year to do."
And I thought to myself as I went my way,
"Which of these roles have I tried to play?
Am I a builder that works with care
Measuring life by the rule and square.
Am I shaping my deeds to a well made plan,
Patiently doing the best I can?
Or am I a wrecker who walks the town,
Content with the labor of tearing down."
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The Temple of Living Stones
By Lawrence N. Greenleaf
The temple made of wood and stone may crumble and decay,
But there's a viewless Fabric which shall never fade away;
Age after age the Masons strive to consummate the Plan,
But still the work's unfinished which th' immortal Three began;
None but immortal eyes may view, complete in all its parts,
The Temple formed of Living Stones - the structure made of hearts.
'Neath every form of government, in every age and clime;
Amid the world's convulsions and the ghastly wrecks of time, -
While empires rise in splendor, and are conquered and o'erthrown,
And cities crumble into dust, their very sites unknown, -
Beneath the sunny smiles of peace, the threatening frown of strife,
Freemasonry has stood unmoved, with age renewed her life.
She claims her votaries in all climes, for none are under ban
Who place implicit trust in God, and love their fellow man;
The heart that shares another's woe beats just as warm and true
Within the breast of Christian, Mohammedan or Jew;
She levels all distinctions from the highest to the least, -
The King must yield obedience to the Peasant in the East.
What honored names on history's page, o'er whose brave deeds we pore,
Have knelt before our sacred shrine and trod our checkered floor!
Kings, princes, statesmen, heroes, bards who square their actions true,
Between the Pillars of the Porch now pass in long review;
O, Brothers, what a glorious thought for us to dwell upon, -
The mystic tie that binds our hearts bound that of Washington!
Although our past achievements we with honest pride review,
As long as there's Rough Ashlars there is work for us to do;
We must shape the Living Stones with instruments of love
For that eternal mansion in the Paradise above;
Toil as we've toiled in ages past to carry out the plan, -
'Tis this; - the Fatherhood of God, the Brotherhood of Man!
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An Ancient Masonic Song
This song was first published in 1756 in The Freemason, London.
'Tis Masonry unites mankind,
To gen'rous actions, forms the Soul;
In friendly Converse all conjoined,
One Spirit animates the whole.
Wher'er aspiring Domes arise,
Wherever sacred Altars stand;
These Altars blaze into the skies,
The Domes proclaim the Mason's Hand.
As passions rough the Soul disguise,
Till Science cultivates the Mind;
So by the rude Stone shapen lies,
Till by the Mason's art refin'd.
Tho' still our chief Concern and Care
Be to deserve the Brother's Name:
Yet ever mindful of the Fair,
Their kindest influence we claim.
Let wretches at our Manhood rail;
But they who once our Order prove,
Will own that we who build so well,
With equal energy can love.
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Masonic Ode
The following ode was composed by Brother J, K. Mitchell, for the occasion of
laying the corner stone of the Masonic Temple in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
which took place December, 1854.
O! glorious Builder of the vaulted skies!
Almighty Architect of Earth and Heaven!
Come down and bless the Mason's enterprise,
To Thee, O God, in Faith and Mercy given.
A home to Friendship, Truth and Love we raise,
Where, ages yet to come, shall sound our Master's praise.
O make its deep foundations firm and fast!
O bless the rearing of this mighty pile!
And when to Thee its spires look up at last,
Upon its finished work, the workmen smile!
Nor less the inner works of kindness bless!
And make the Mason's labor -- peace and happiness!
Enlarge our spirit! -- let our means improve!
Enforce our faith! -- make strong our mystic ties!
Exalt our friendship, and refine our love!
And let our hearts be pure before Thine eyes,
So that, while God approves, the world may see
How great and god a thing is Ancient Freemasonry!
Aid us to wipe away the widow's bitter tears!
Help us to hear the orphan's lonely cries!
Be present when we sooth a Brother's cares!
And be our strength in all calamities!
For what can we as one, or many, do,
Unless, O Lord! with Thee, our labors we pursue!
O! glorious Builder of the vaulted skies!
Almighty Architect of Earth and Heaven!
Come down and bless the Mason's enterprise,
To Thee, O God, in Faith and Mercy given.
A home to Friendship, Truth and Love we raise,
Where, ages yet to come, shall sound our Master's praise.
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The (Bridge) Builder
Brother William Allen Dromgoole
An old man going a lone highway,
Came in the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm deep and dark and wide,
The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fears for him.
But he paused when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.
"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You're wasting your time in building here,
Your journey will end with the ending day,
You never again will pass this way.
You've crossed the chasm dark and wide;
Why build you this bridge at the eventide?"
The old man raised his old gray head;
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth who, too must pass this way.
The sullen stream which had no fears for me
To that fairhaired youth a pit-fall be,
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim,
Good friend, I'm building this bridge for him."
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Truth Through The Ages
By Brother J. Willis Smith, read in G.L. of Maryland Communication in May,
1968 on the occasion of his receipt of a Seventy-year Service Award.
If you have truth, 'tis yours to lift
The veil from shadowed eyes,
That they also may find the truth
Which in your vision lies.
Strong hearts and minds must lead the way
Into the dim unknown,
So weaker ones who follow them
May reap where they have sown.
A hundred million centuries
Produced the present age,
And now a generation new
Will add another page.
So it has been since time began,
The present or the past,
So will it be through future years
As long as time will last.
Each generation comes and goes;
Ours must soon say good-bye.
To you we throw the torch we've held;
'Tis yours to lift it high.
And let the light of truth shine forth
In all you do or say;
To build new values in the world
E're you, too, pass this way.
And when the time shall come for you
To stand where we now stand;
When you have served your time and left
Your imprint on the land.
When fifty years from now, you come
To claim your golden grain,
May it be said of you, each one,
You have not lived in vain.
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