The Plumb Rule

When the first sun-baked bricks of mud and straw
Dried on the sand,
Men found out one unalterable law:
Walls will not stand
If courses are not square, and true, and good,
And corners straight;
So men devised the simple frame of wood,
And line and weight.

And so they made the rule,
Pointing to the sky.
The plumb rule - infallible,
That cannot lie.

When the first stones were cut, and squared, and dressed,
Great works they did.
But all were subject to one simple test:
Pylon and pyramid
Were measured out, foundations were laid flat
In Babylon.
The rule that squared the ancient ziggurat,
Set out the Parthenon.

For they all knew the rule,
One must apply.
The true vertical - infallible,
That will not lie.

Before you come to carve and decorate,
Look to the wall.
If courses are not truly square and straight,
The stones will fall.
Although the gilding may flash brave and fine,
Does all stand true?
Apply the test, that simple bob and line,
Those craftsmen knew.

You must obey the rule.
Trust not your eye.
That age-old tool - infallible,
Can never lie.

Note: the Parthenon is not actually built to true squares, it looks square due to optical illusion - but the masons must still have needed to measure the true lines.



This Man Began to Build, and Was Not Able to Finish
(Luke 14: 28-30)

The workmen gather, wanting pay,
Then see my empty purse.
At last, unpaid, they drift away
With muttered curse.
The worthless stones and timbers lie,
Abandoned at my feet,
Around stand walls, scarce shoulder-high,
I can’t complete.

Then over the deserted site,
And useless, broken tools,
Come leering through the falling night
The mocking fools.
They come to fling their stale jeers,
And hiss their searing scorns,
Their laughter crackles in my ears
Like burning thorns.

The work they could not understand,
They come now to condemn.
Can they not see that when I planned
I dreamed for them?
But then a voice within my heart,
Buried deep down inside,
Whispers that from the very start,
I dreamed for pride.

Around me hollow darkness falls,
They leave me here alone,
Huddled beneath the half-built walls
Of rough-hewn stone,
Gazing into the arching skies
Where glowing stars unfold,
Watching a mighty temple rise,
Roofed all in gold.

The Hope of Reward

The weary day draws to its close,
The hour groweth late;
Yet ere ye go to seek repose,
Forgather at the gate;
And come ye not from fear of pain,
As doth the timid slave,
But in the just desire for gain
For work ye freely gave.

We are not pressed, but
free-born men,
And free-born men entire,
And well we know the labourer,
Is worthy of his hire.

So come, collect your wages!
The corn, and wine, and oil,
The promise of reward it is
That sweetens daily toil.
Fair recompense is all we ask,
Yet search your heart and say,
Did ye complete your ordered task,
Is truly earned your pay pay?

Our father Adam dug the earth,
Our mother Eve she span,
In pain she brought her sons to birth,
To work the life of man;
The sweat upon your brow’s the lot
Of man of woman born -
But muzzle not the patient ox
That treadeth out the corn!

So hang not back, stand forth, receive,
And joyfully retire.
We are not pressed, but free-born men,
And worthy of our hire.

Martin Stead was initiated into Apollo University Lodge, No. 357, in Oxford, and is a Past Master of William Rogers Lodge, No. 2823. He teaches English at Harrow.