The Masonic Trowel

... to spread the cement of brotherly love and affection, that cement which unites us into one sacred band or society of brothers, among whom no contention should ever exist, but that noble emulation of who can best work or best agree ...

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 He was born in a little village,

the child of a peasant maid;

The son of a labouring father,

a carpenter skilled,

by trade;

He was taught the craft of his forebears,

and his prayers at his mother's knee;

Learned from the book of the prophets,

all the virtue and truth to see.

He never attended a college,

he never wrote a book,

But he loved the things of nature,

his God he could find in a brook,

Or in the archway of heaven,

the trees,

the flowers of the field,

The stars in the constellation,

to him their secrets would yield.

He never had a home of his own,

nor the blessings of children or wife;

He never dwelt in the city,

for he loved the simple life;

He was an itinerant preacher,

but he never had a church;

He could hold by his power the multitude,

while he the scriptures would search.

He never traveled far from home,

or the place where he was born;

He loved to watch the setting sun,

or the waking of the dawn,

Of all the things that make up life,

(the things we suppose),

He never knew the least of them,

yet he could disclose

The beauties of the daily life,

the goodness of the poor;

The virtues of an ardent soul,

the fragrance of the flower.

He never was associated with the things that we call great.

He never sought for eminence in the church or in the state;

He never painted a canvas rare,

or ever fashioned a stone,

Or wrote for man an exquisite poem,

he seemed to stand alone;

He never had credentials,

or the things of earth possessed,

He was filled with love and kindness,

taught these,

nor e'er transgressed.
When the tide of public opinion turned

'gainst him,

friends turned away;

Given over to his enemies for trial,

a mocking display.

He was nailed to a cross and crowned,

(for in ignorance,

no one perceives),

And there he hung bleeding and dying,

suspended between two thieves.

There at the scene of His Passion,

the soldiers of Rome playing dice,

Gambling for his possessions,

his raiment "the throw",

the price.

'Twas pity that gave the donation,

a tomb,

his last resting‑place,

Given in commiseration,

that death should not abase.

The years have passed and He stands out,

the Central Figure Sublime;

The Leader of all human progress,

the Exemplar of all time.

The armies that march on the earth,

to watch and guard all that be,

The navies that sail on the ocean,

to protect our shores while at sea,

All the Parliaments that sit legislating,

all the Kings and the Queens include,
Have not affected the life of a man
Like Him,
who once hung on the rood.

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Last modified: November 23, 2013