THE MASON'S HOLY HOUSE 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 in 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 blare There, in the Kadosh Kadoshim, Between the broad-winged cherubim, Where the Shekinah once abode The heart shall raise in daily hymns Of gratitude and love to God.

EVERY YEAR Life is a count of losses, Every year; For the weak are heavier crosses, Every year; Lost Springs with sobs replying Unto Wear Autumns' sighing, While those we love are dying, Every year. The days have less of gladness, Every year; The nights more weight of sadness, Every year; Fair Springs no longer charm us, The winds and weather harm us, The threats of death alarm us, Every year. There come new cares and sorrows, Every year; Dark days and darker morrows, Every year; The ghosts of dead loves haunt us, The ghosts of changed friends taunt us, And disappointments daunt us, Every year. To the Past go more dead faces, Every year; As the Loved leave vacant places, Every year; Everywhere the sad eyes meet us, In the evening's dusk they greet us, And to come to them entreat us, Every year. "You are growing old," they tell us, Every year; "You are more alone," they tell us, Every year; "You can win no new affection, "You have only recollection, "Deeper sorrow and dejection, "Every year." Too true! -- Life's shores are shifting, Every year; And we are seaward drifting, Every year; Old places, changing, fret us, The living more forget us, There are fewer to regret us, Every year. But the truer life draws nigher, Every year; And its Morning-star climbs higher, Every year; Earth's hold on us grows slighter, And the heavy burden lighter, And the Dawn immortal brighter, Every year.

© Copyright 2001. Ancient & Accepted Scottish Rite, Valley of St. Louis. All rights reserved.