Liberty High School - Cauldron Yearbook (Bethlehem, PA)

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Echoes ol the Ransomed Harvest You cannot break the chains of Time. Nor can you turn his rusty wheels, To peer back o'er your yesterdays. But God bestowed within you minds, That reap and mirror all your yore, Into what man calls, memories. On distant clouds, there mem'fies dream, Each holding your mirrored Book of Life, That reveals the birth of a new plantation, You the Senior Class of thirty-five. You waved and wandered through a jade pasture, As do the fields of fair, young grain, Roamed through the richness of the blessed earth, Through the song-haunted valleys of happiness, Whirled to the medley of the summer breeze, Rustled to the mother river of all Knowledge, Where she fondled you as her true children. A Erected there her stately palace, Alabaster emerging from a spacious velvet frame, Kingly halls and princely chambers 1 Where years you spent beneath her portals. There she breathed upon you blessings, Poured upon you her precious treasures, That men's lives .were lived to make. By the jasper-tabled river banks You partook of her choicest meats, Of honesty, knowledge, justice, care. Honor, love, truth, and wisdom rare. Nurtured to be gallant soldiers, Hearers, workers, strivers, doers. Some her dearest to be fathers of the nation. But, whether some be pinnacles of the mountains, Or fathers of the nation, You are' the government and the people. You are the harvest of a chosen grain Which brought forth its fruit in its due season. Reaped were you all as men and women On that day of Graduation. Stop awhile ere you leave her stately halls, Linger inside those iron doors, There pray God on one bent knee, Thank Him for those yesterdays. Go, now then, you stalwart harvest, And climb the famous road called Life. You can make this final journey To your grasp among the stars, Up the grayened scale to glory, To the gate marked Destiny's End, Receive the meed for all your labors, For your strife along the way. You will muse of Liberty High School, And the gods who worked that mill, Of the molds that shaped your mortal mind. Then when life's sweet course is run, You'll ne'er forget your loved friends, From that dim and smouldering past, From the day of Graduation. -John B. Erdell. seventeen

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