I read how some had taken oil

With lamps which they had carried;

How they slept and slumbered while

The Bridegroom stayed and tarried.

 

I read how, late at mid-night hour,

When all were fast asleep,

A cry was made so suddenly

That some were left to weep.

The wise went out to meet the Groom—

The foolish went to buy,

 

And ere the foolish could return

The time had passed them by.

I thought how precious was this oil

The foolish had despised

And of the unsurpassing worth

The wise had recognized.

 

I prayed and asked the Lord for oil

That makes the simple wise;

That floods the darksome heart with light,

And brightens dim-lit eyes.

 

I long had run from every trial—

Avoiding every woe;

I even thought the scourging rod

Were nothing more than foe.

 

But when His voice so gently came,

My heart could not resist.

He said the things from which I ran

Were sent for my assist.

 

"No oil," said He, "can any get

With olive yet unbruised;

And those who would refuse the rod

Must be themselves refused."

 

"No wine can e're be made of grapes

That have not known the press—

Nor can the seed be multiplied,

Except when sown in death."

 

"The Cherubim behind the veil

Were made of purest gold.

A bruised and beaten work were they;

Not formed by gentle mold."

 

"O, child of Mine! Do not despair!

Though heavy weighs thy cross.

But understand eternal gain

Is only had through loss."

 

"A measure of this Holy Oil

Is in each vessel poured—

The wise are ever pouring out;

The foolish seek to hoard."