Tag Archives: freemasonry

In 1712 the last execution for witchcraft occurred in England; in 1714 witch trials were abolished in Prussia. In 1715 an Italian Jesuit missionary, Castiglione, arrived in China; in 1716 the Chinese abolished Christian teachings. In 1717 Freemasonry was formalized, with the establishment of the first Grand Lodge in London.

Terry Melanson, Perfectibilists: The 18th Century Bavarian Order of the Illuminati

Each In His Own Tongue

A fire-mist and a planet—

A crystal and a cell

A jelly-fish and a saurian,

And caves where the cave-men dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty

And a face turned from the clod—

Some call it Evolution,

And others call it God.

 

A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky,

The rich ripe tint of the cornfields,

And the wild geese sailing high—

And all over the uplands and lowland

The charm of the golden rod—

Some of us call it Autumn,

And others call it God.

 

Like the tides on a crescent sea-beach,

When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings

Come welling and surging in—

Come from the mystic ocean

Whose rim no foot has trod—

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

 

A picket frozen on duty—

A mother starved for her brood—

Socrates drinking the hemlock

And Jesus on the rood;

And millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight hard pathway plod—

Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

— William Herbert Carruth

To this beautiful conception, Deputy Grand Master Roe Fulkerson, Grand Lodge of the District of Columbia, has added the following inspiration:

Brethren banded together

Hand in hand for good,

Joined for mankind’s uplift,

United in brotherhood.

Each of the band a builder,

Faces turned from the sod;

Some folks call it Masonry

And others call it God.

“Unto the Least of These”

Hail, Craftsman, hail! Canst thou in honor say

Thou hast fulfilled the glory of this day,

Ere thou hast heard the plea of those who miss

A mother’s holy love, a father’s kiss?

 

Tho’ from thy lavish hand such riches pour

As even princes had not known before,

Hast though much given while a Brother’s child

Wakes to a dawn on which Christ has not smiled?

If Thou hast children, or the memories

Of dear soft lips that once thy cheek didst know,

Give to the orphaned waifs and thou wilt please

The Master who hath said long, long ago:

“As ye have done it to the least of these,

Thus ye have done it unto Me also.”

— George Sanford Holmes, from The Square & Compass, December 1921

Mason Marks

They’re traced in lines on the Parthenon,

Inscribed by the subtle Greek;

And Roman legions have carved them on

Walls, roads and arch antique;

Long ere the Goth, with vanal hand,

Gave scope to his envy dark,

The Mason craft in many a land

Has graven its Mason mark.

 

The obelisk old and the pyramids,

Around which a mystery clings,—

The Hieroglyphs on the coffin lids

Of weird Egyptian kings,—

Syria, Carthage and Pompeii,

Buried and strewn and stark,

Have marble records that will not die,

Their primitive Mason mark.

 

Upon column and frieze and capital,

In the eye of the caste volute,—

On Scotia’a curve, or an astrogal,

Or in triglyp’s channel acute,—

Cut somewhere on the entablature,

And oft, like a sudden spark,

Flashing a light on a date obscure,

Shines many a Mason mark.

 

These craftsmen old had genial whim,

That nothing could e’er destroy,

With a love of their art that naught could dim,

They toiled with a chronic joy;

Nothing was too complex to essay,

In aught they dashed to embark;

They triumphed on many an Appian Way,

Where they’d left their Mason mark.

 

Crossing the Alps like Hannibal,

Or skirting the Pyrenees,

On peak and plain, in crypt and cell,

On foot or on bandaged knees;—

From Tiber to Danube, from Rhine to Seine,

They needed no “letters of marque;”—

Their art was their passport in France and Spain,

And in Britain their Mason mark.

 

The monolith gray and Druid chair,

The pillars and towers of Gael,

In Ogham occult their age they bear,

That time can only reveal.

Live on, old monuments of the part,

Our beacons through ages dark!

In primal majesty still you’ll last,

Endeared by each Mason mark.

— Anonymous

God’s Freemasonry

Here in a lodge of pines I sit;

The canopy thrown over it

Is heaven’s own of very blue;

Due east and west its precincts lie

And always the all-seeing eye

Of summer’s sun is shining through.

 

Its portals open to the west;

The chipmunk gray and sober dressed,

The tyler is: You see him dodge

To challenge every new alarm:

He has no sword upon his arm

But well he guards this secret lodge.

 

Out master is that giant pine

Who bends o’er us with mein divine

To keep the lodge in order trim:

His wardens are two gray-beard birch

Who sit like elders in a church

Or make decorous bows to him.

 

The deacons are two slender trees,

Who move about whene’er the breeze

Brings orders from the master’s seat;

Our organist? Where thickest glooms

Are darkening in the pine top’s plumes

The brother winds out music beat.

 

Whoever knocks upon the door

To learn the ancient wildwood lore,

That one he is our candidate:

We strip him of his city gear,

And meet him on the level here,

Then to our ways initiate.

 

We slip the hoodwink from his eye

And bid him look on earth and sky

To read the hieroglyphics there;

More ancient these than Golden Fleece

Or Roman Eagle, Tyre, or Greece,

Or Egypt old beyond compare.

 

On grass and stone and flower and sod

Is written down by hand of God

The secrets of this Masonry;

Who has the hoodwink from his eyes

May in these common things surprise

The awful signs of Deity.

 

Here bird and plant and man and beast

Are seeking their Eternal East:

And here in springtime may be heard,

By him who doth such teachings seek

With praying heart, and wise, and meek,

The thundering of the old Lost World.

 

All things that in creation are

From smallest fly to largest star,

In this fellowship may be

For all that floweth out from Him,

From dust to man and seraphim

Belong to God’s freemasonry.

— H L Haywood, from The Builder, December 1918