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The Masters Wages
I
met a dear old man today,
Who
wore a Masonic pin,
It
was old and faded like the man,
It's
edges were worn quite thin.
I
approached the park bench where he sat,
To
give the old brother his due,
I
said, "I see you've traveled east,"
He
said, "I have, have you."
I
said, "I have, and in my day
Before the all seeing sun,
I
played in the rubble, with Jubala
Jubalo and Jubalum."
He
shouted, "don't laugh at the work my son,
It's
good and sweet and true,
And
if you've traveled as you said,
You
should give these things their due."
The
word, the sign the token,
The
sweet Masonic prayer,
The
vow that all have taken,
Who've climbed the inner stair.
The
wages of a Mason,
Are
never paid in gold,
But
the gain comes from contentment,
When
you're weak and growing old.
You
see, I've carried my obligations,
For
almost fifty years,
It
has helped me through the hardships
And
the failures full of tears.
Now
I'm losing my mind and body,
Death is near but I don't despair,
I've
lived my life upon the level,
And
I'm dying upon the square.
Sometimes the greatest lessons
Are
those that are learned anew,
And
the old man in the park today
Has
changed my point of view.
To
all Masonic brothers,
The
only secret is to care,
May
you live your life upon the level,
May
you part upon the square.
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