A member of a certain Lodge, who previously attended meetings regularly, stopped going. After a few months, the Worshipful Master decided to visit him. It was a chilly evening, and the Worshipful Master found his brother at home alone, sitting before a blazing fire.
Guessing the reason for the Worshipful Master’s visit, the brother welcomed him, led him to a comfortable chair near the fireplace and waited. The Worshipful Master made himself comfortable, but said nothing.
In the grave silence, he contemplated the dance of the flames around the burning logs. After several minutes, the Worshipful Master took the fire tongs, carefully picked up a brightly burning ember and placed it to one side of the hearth, all alone. Then he sat back in his chair, still silent. His host watched all of this in quiet contemplation. As the one lone ember’s flame flickered and diminished, there was a momentary glow, and its fire was no more. Soon, it was cold and dead.
Not a word had been spoken since the initial greeting. The Worshipful Maser glanced at his watch and chose this time to leave. He slowly stood up, pickup up the cold, dead ember, and placed it back in the middle of the fire. Immediately, it began to glow once more, with all the light and warmth of the burning coals around it.
As the Worshipful Master reached the door to leave, his host said, with a tear running down his cheek, “Thank you so much for your fiery summons, my brother. I’ll be back in our Lodge next meeting.”
—Author UnknownThere’s a Temple of God in tales of the past,
I see through the mists of historical years.
And my heart through the veil of its mysteries vast
Is filled with the vision of numberless spheres.
Revealing my failure to build temples to last
Through the age after age that before me appears.
With the stars of my God ever shining above,
And the tools of my calling at hand,
I will build me a temple of glorious love,
With the arch of my Masonry spanned.
And the Spirit of God coming down from above
Will comfort my soul with His wand.
There’s a Mountain of God in each of our hearts
For that temple’s enduring base.
And the work we may do by a Mason’s arts
Will this solid foundation embrace.
And within it’s a spirit that never departs
Nor will ever the temple disgrace.
Through the beautiful aisles of the glorious past
Will its wonderful harmonies swell,
When the dead shall arise at Gabriel’s blast
From the grave’s most darkening cell,
Then the lot of the true will no longer be cast
With the false he ought to repel.
“The cedars of Lebanon grow at our door,
The quarries are found at our gate,
The ships out of Ophir with golden ore,
For our summoning mandate wait,”
Then let us get busy (day soon’ll be o’er)
And the house of our soul we’ll create.
While the light is still with use, the light should be used
For the night we cannot control.
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
Or be broken the golden bowl,
May we build the Temple we never can lose
For the dwelling place of our soul.
Charles Clyde Hunt