Pilgrims have tarried where angels were near.

Souls that were longing for far better things,
Their faith growing dulled by the Siroc's blight,
Have shaken the dust from their weary wings,
And plumed them again for a higher flight.

They have spoke of the work of the by-gone year,
Of Ashlers now perfected true and square,
Of weary hands folded upon the bier,
Of souls passed on to a lodge room fair.

They have told of storms from the North, so chill,
How dark was the South when the daylight ceased;
They have watched the sun neath the Western hill,
They have hailed his light in the holy East.

They have sang of the victor knights whose swords,
Are sharpened to slay the dark hosts of sin;
Still marching on through Saracen hordes,
Till the King's Encampment at last they win.

They have knelt in prayer round the altar's shade,
And implored what man never asks in vain,
That creation's Grand Architect will aid,
The builders to build till calm rest they gain.

Brave hearts have brightened love's armor anew,
And so shall the magical spell last on,
Till all who have worked by his pattern true,