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Ashlar Home > Poems > Rob Morris > The Perfect Brick

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 through 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 all are true,
By examination due,
This Mason 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 six-fold face
This Perfect Brick displays the things of light!
Turn it about, about, and trace
The ancient symbols as they catch the sight!
The Trowel, ah, it speaks of spreading peace,
Causing all wars and bickerings to cease!
The Compass, ah, it serves to warm the soul,
To circumscribe the passions and control
The appetites within the due and honest bound!
The G, can any view that mystic round,
Nor feel like bending reverent knee,
As if in presence of the Deity?
It is the Signet of a King,
Greater than Babylonian bard 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 Emblems of our Perfect Brick!
At last life's powers fail
The Silver Cord is loosed, the Wheel
Of Life, and Golden Bowl are broken
The sunny 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 is 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 Mason's Home!

What, then, is there for all his toil
Through life's long, weary week,
No Corn 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
Of 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 Column finds its place in Temple high,
To stand in honor to Eternity,
Then God Himself will claim our Perfect Brick!
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Thanks,
Bill” Brother Bill, Crown Point, IN