Father's Lodge

Father's lodge, I well remember,

wasn't large as lodges go,

There was trouble in December

getting to it through the snow.

But he seldom missed a meeting;

drifts or blossoms in the lane,

Still the Tyler heard his greeting,

winter ice or summer rain.

Father's lodge thought nothing of it:

mid their labors and their cares

Those old Masons learned to love it,

that fraternity of theirs.

What's a bit of stormy weather,

when a little down the road,

Men are gathering together,

helping bear each other's load?

Father's lodge had made a village:

men of father's sturdy brawn

Turned a wilderness to tillage,

seized the flag, and carried on,

Made a village, built a city,

shaped a country, formed a state,

Simple men, not wise nor witty —

humble men, and yet how great!

Father's lodge had caught the gleaming

of the great Masonic past;

Thinking, toiling, daring, dreaming,

they were builders to the last.

Quiet men, not rich nor clever,

with the tools they found at hand

Building for the great forever,

first a village then a land.

Father's lodge no temple builded,

shaped of steel and carved of stone;

Marble columns, ceilings guilded,

father's lodge has never known.

But a heritage of glory

they have left, the humble ones —

They have left their mighty story

in the keeping of their sons.

Douglas Malloch