Far out beyond those misty clouds,
that veil the heavenly blue,
the Master sits within the East,
and checks on what you do.

So, as your daily tasks you do,
prosaic though they be,
the rule of plumb and square observe
for all the world to see.

For when at last your day must end,
your tools you lay away,
'twill be how well your work was done
on which he'll base your pay.

For when you rap upon that door,
and seek to enter in,
'tis only He can vouch for you,
and free you from your sin.

No ritual learned can earn that place,
o trappings, rich and rare,
'tis heart and mind and love of man
that grants you welcome there!

by James F. Sullivan, PM-69






There was a Rundle, station master,
An' Beazeley of the rail;
An' Achman, commissariat,
An' Donkin o' the jail;

An' Blake, cunductor sergeant-
Our Master twice was ‘e,
With ‘im that kept the Europe shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.

Outside-"Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Slam!"
Inside-"Brother" an' it doesn't do no ‘arm,
We meet upon the level an' we parted on the square,
An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother Lodge out there.

There was Bola Nath, accountant,
And Saul, the Aden Jew,
An, Din Mohammed, draughtsman,
Of the Sursey office, too.

There was Babu Chicekerhitty,
An' Amir Singh, the Sikh,
An' Castro of the fittin' sheds,
A Roman Catholic.

We ‘ad n't good regalia,
An' our Lodge was old an' bare;
But we knew the ancient landmarks,
An' we kept ‘em to a hair.

An' looking on it backwards,
It often strikes me thus,
There ain't such things as ‘eathen now,
Except, per'aps, it's us.

For monthly after labor
We'd all sit down an' smoke
(We durs'nt give no banquets
Least a brother's caste were broke),

An' man on man got bukkin'
Religion an' the rest,
An' every man comparin'
Of the God 'e knowed the best.

So man on man got started,
An' not a beggar stirred
Till mornin' waked the parrots,
An' that dam' brain-fever bird.

We'd say't was very curious,
An' we'd all go ‘ome to bed
With Mohammed, God, an' Shira,
Changin' pickets in our ‘ead.

Full out of Gov'ment service
This wanderin' foot ‘ath pressed
An' bore fraternal greetin's
To the Lodges East and West

Accordin' as commanded,
From Ko'at to Singapore,
But I wish that I might see them
In my Mother Lodge once more.

I wish that I might see them,
My Brethren white and brown,
With the burlies smellin' pleasant
An' the ag-dan passin' down,

An' the old Khansannah snorin'
On the bottle-Khana floor,
Like a Brother in good standing
With my Mother Lodge once more.

Outside-"Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Slam!"
Inside-"Brother" an' it doesn't do no ‘arm,
We meet upon the level an' we parted on the square,
An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother Lodge out there.

by Rudyard Kipling






Are you a brother that would be missed.,
or are you content that your name is on the list.

Do you make meetings and mingle with the flock,
or do you stay home and criticize the knock.

Do you help work go along
or are you satisfy that you just belong.

Do you visit a brother who is sick
or live it for a few and talk about the clique.

Brothers, you know right from wrong,
are you an active member or do you just belong.






I stand at the same sacred altar
Where, prompted by brotherly love,
I vowed solemn vows without falter
Witnessed by Him from above.

As once I knelt there in reverenceI
stand reverently there ---
My thoughts have suffered no severance,
As I vowed---so I'll vote---on the square

If through friendship I favor the seeker
But think him unworthy at heart ---
Lest my Lodge by my ballot grow weaker,
Such favor from justice must part.

At the altar where light flooded o'er me,
I'll betray not the trust that I bear,
I'll shame not the emblems before me,
But I'll cast my vote on the square.

Or should he be not to my liking,
But merit by action the trust;
My soul I'll not perjure by striking
A blow when such a blow be unjust ---

But I'll welcome his step 'cross the border,
I'll honor the trust that I bear,
I'll vote for the good of the order
By casting my vote on the square.

Time flies --- and ere long my petition
Will be filed in the Grand Lodge above.
I'll be glad then I tempered such mission
With justice and brotherly love.

"With the measure ye mete" has been spoken
By the Worshipful Master up there ---
No promise e're made has He broken
And He'll handle my case on the square.

Thomas Q. Ellis, Grand Master 1925, Mississippi"






Friendship is a chain of gold
Shaped in God's all perfect mold.

Each link a smile, a laugh, a tear,
A grip of the hand, a word of cheer.

No matter how far or heavy the load,
Sweet is the journey - on friendship's road.







My precious son, I love you so!
You are wanted, the Lord does know,
How my heart exclaims with joy,
Thank you, Lord for my little boy!

You are my son, my hearts desire,
My precious gift, my refining fire!
The days tick by, one by one,
Each day gets better because you are my son!

Jonathan David Phillips





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