An old masonic hymn

An old masonic hymn called "Chopping at My Own Block”

Verse I
By candle dim and compass wide,
Where silent brethren stand beside,
I took the mallet in my hand,
To shape the roughness of this land.

The ashlar waits, the hour is late,
No man escapes the weight of fate,
And every strike the iron spoke:
“You’re chopping at your own rough block.”

Chorus
So strike it true, and strike it square,
With honest heart and steady care,
For none may hide and none may mock
The man who works his own rough block.

Stone by stone and fault by fault,
Past pride and fear and grinding thought,
The Temple rises from the shock
Of chopping at my own rough block.

Verse II
The plumb line swayed before my eyes,
It showed no comfort, told no lies,
The level whispered low and grim:
“All towers begin by shaping him.”

No king nor beggar walks exempt,
No polished word nor false attempt,
The chisel rang, the rafters rocked,
While chopping at my own rough block.

Chorus
So strike it true, and strike it square,
With honest heart and steady care,
For none may hide and none may mock
The man who works his own rough block.

Stone by stone and fault by fault,
Past pride and fear and grinding thought,
The Temple rises from the shock
Of chopping at my own rough block.

Bridge
And if my hands are torn and scarred,
The labor holy, stern, and hard,
I’ll leave behind no gilded name,
Only a truer soul reclaimed.

For every brother yet unborn
Must face the hammer every morn,
And hear within the mason’s knock:
“You’re chopping at your own rough block.”

Final Chorus
Then strike it true, and strike it square,
The Architect is everywhere,
And every heart must bear the shock
Of chopping at its own rough block.

Until the working tools are laid,
And dust returns to earth and shade,
May wisdom guide the final knock
While chopping at my own rough block.