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The Epitaph

A Mason sat, with pen in hand,
To write about a Brother
Who'd crossed the veil, and all agreed,
Like him there was no other.

He'd been a pillar of the Lodge,
Of that there was no doubt.
When volunteers were asked for, he'd say,
"Sure, I'll help you out!"

He'd want a simple epitaph,
As plain as it could be,
For that's the kind of man he was,
No pompous windbag he.

The services he rendered
To all who were in need,
Were clothed in anonymity,
So greater was each deed.

Our writer was a simple soul,
No English Ph.D.
How could he honor such a man,
And do it properly?

He searched the tenets of the Craft
His Brother'd learned with care.
In hope of finding "just the words,"
Alas they were not there.

For the lessons there are many,
But the words he sought were few.
How could he pay this tribute
To his friend and Brother too?

At length his whole face brightened,
As the dawning from the night.
He had learned his Brother's secret,
And he knew that he was right!

His Brother earned the love of man
In deep humility.
His byword was the Golden Rule;
He'd served humanity.

This giant, in the eyes of those
Who loved him from the heart,
Received the highest accolade
A Mason can impart.

No long procession, flowery praise,
Nor crass verbosity.
Four simple words that say it all,
"He lived his Masonry!"

P. Kenneth Pfalzgraf
Past Master, Lodge 408

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