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The Perfect Brick

Today in Masonic History we present The Perfect Brick by Rob Morris.

Come, ye that strongly build,
And deftly wield
The Level, Plumb and Square!
Ye whose hard girding toil,
God's Corn and Wine and Oil
Were made to cheer!
Ye clothed In aprons white,
Whose uttermost delight,
All throngh life's toilsome week,
Is, from the quarry, to perfect a stone,
That the Chief O'erseer will own,
And bless from His exalted Throne,-
Come, and I'll tell you of a Perfect Brick

Fit for the inclosing Wall
of Hiram's royal Hall: -
Fit for the Pavement that Queen Sheba trod:-
Fit for the Capstone high,
Or in the Depths to lie,
Hid from each prying eye,
In the Mount of God,-
This Perfect Brick whose shape delights the view,
Whose polish charms us too,
Whose angles are all true,
By examination due, -
This Maon, fair and meek,
This son of Light and eke the son of Love,
Whose pattern is the Sun and Dove,-
Rare are the virtues of our Perfect Brick!

See, on Its every face
This Perfect Brick displays a thing of light!
Turn it about, about, and trace
These ancient symbols as they catch the sight!
The Trowel,-ah, it speaks of spreading peace,
Causing all wars and bickering to cease!
The Compass,-ah, It serves to warm the soul,
To circumscribe its passions and control
Its appetites, within the due and narrow bound!
The G,-can any view that mystic round,
Nor feel like bending reverent knee,
As if in presence of the Deity!
This is the Signet of a King,
Greater than bards of Babylon did sing!
The Square,-its trumpet-tongue proclaims
Great virtue's power to Square the heart,
Upon the perfect angles of our Art!
The Broken Column,-whose white marble gleams
Above the grave of Hiram : and the Spray
Of everlasting Green, that bade them seek
"Where he lay buried ;" and through countless years
Of sin and strife, and mortal agony,
Hath taught the sorrowing spirit to look up,
Amidst its tears, and fondly hope,
In Immortality to lose its cares,-
These are the Emblema of our Perfect Brick!

At last life's powers fail:
The Sliver Cord Is loosed, the Wheel
or Life, and Golden Bowl are broken:
The sunnny days return no more:
There comes, through every avenue, the Token,
That Death Is knocking at the Door!
The Grinders cease: the Eyes grow dim:
Gray Hairs are blossoming above:
The Ear no more receives the happy hymn,
The Heart no more la kindled up with love:
The ruffian Death, his work completes,
The Mourners go about the streets,
Our souls with Sympathy to move!
Beneath the green Sprigs we entomb
Him the delight of the Masons' Home!
What then! is there for all his toil
Through ltfe's long weary week,
No Com and Wine and Oil!
Ye unseen, hovering Spirits, speak!
Hath the Grand Master a reward
For him who sleeps beneath the sod!
I tell you yes! and when the wick
or life's poor taper all is spent,
And the body goes to banishment,
The Soul, the Soul, the white-robed Soul,
All earthly dross off-throwing, finds its goal:
'The Pillar finds its place in Temple high,
To stand, ln honor to Eternity,-
And God Himself will claim our Perfect Brick!