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Ashlar Home > Poems > Rob Morris > Gavel

Gavel

By Rob Morris

We meet upon the Level, is the Senior Warden's word,
As he lifts his mystic column in the West,
We act upon the Plumb is the Junior's quick accord,
And to work the brothers hasten with a zest.
But the Gavel is my fancy
Over Level, Square and Plumb,
For it marks the very spirit of command,
In its ringing notes methodic
Every dissonance is dumb,
And a willing spirit hovers o'er the band.

We part upon the Square is the fiat of the East
When the hour of ten commands us to depart,
And the Junior lifts his column, and the Tyler is released,
And we hurry to the welcome of the heart.
But the Gavel is my fancy,
I shall never cease to cry,
'Tis Celestial music dropping to the earth
'Tis a memory of the angels
As they heard it in the sky,
When the King from chaos called creation forth.

In the weird and mystic circle, solemn silence brooding round,
There's a something all invisible but strong,
Maybe summoned from the Highest by the Gavel's holy sound,
And it brings the better spirit to the throng.
Oh the Gavel, Master's Gavel,
It shall ever have my praise
While the Book and Symbol whisper God is love
In His mighty Name it speaketh,
All contention it allays,
Till the Lodge below is like the Lodge above.
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