George Pope Morris (1802-1864 / USA)
Our Order, like the ark of yore,
Upon the raging sea was tossed;
Secure amid the billow's roar,
It moved, and nothing has been lost.
When elements discordant seek
To wreck what God in mercy saves,
The struggle is as vain and weak
As that of the retiring waves.
The Power who bade the waters cease,
The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band,
He gave the gentle dove of peace
The branch she bore them from the land.
In him alone we put our trust,
With heart and hand and one accord,
Ascribing, with the true and just,
All 'holiness unto the Lord.'
Comments about this poem (Masonic Hymn. by George Pope Morris )
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