Classic Poem

Darkly hid beneath the quarry,
Masons, many a true block lies;
Hands must shape and hands must carry
Ere the stone the Master prize.
Seek for it,—measure it,—
Fashion it,—polish it!—
Then the Overseer will prize.

What though shapeless, rough, and heavy,
Think ye God His work will lose?
Raise the block with strength He gave ye;
Fit it for the Master's use.
Seek for it,—measure it,—
Fashion it,—polish it!
Then the Overseer will use.

'Twas for this our Fathers banded,—
Through life's quarries they did roam,
Faithful-hearted, skillful-handed,
Bearing many a true block home,
Noticing,—measuring,—
Fashioning,—polishing!
For their glorious Temple home.