'Tis but an hour — our life is but a span;
No summer rose so trail as dying man;
Did there no memory of our deeds survive,
Death were more welcome than the happiest life.

But the true heart shall live in mercy's deed;
The Record stands where every eye can read —
Where countless myriads on the judgment morn
Shall see each charity our hands have done.

What wondrous mercy doth THE Master give,
That the true Workman in his Work shall live!
What wondrous power the dark grave defies —
The Temple stands although the Builder dies!

Bear me in memory then, kind Friends and true,
As one who loved the Master'S cause and you!
Join my poor name with yours in Mystic Chain,
Although we may not, cannot meet again!

And when the stroke of Death, long-pending, falls,
And I no more shall work on Temple walls,
Wreathe the Acacia green about my head
And give one memory to your faithful dead.