Poem by: Dianne Billstrom

This poem was written as I contemplated the Parable of the Ten Virgins and how those with filled vessels felt when their sisters came up short.

“The Bridegroom cometh”,  is the watchword.
My lamp is lit, at times its flame wanes then continues.
We ten keep vigil for His arrival.
I lift my lamp for a better view of the path.

He nears on His stately approach.
My sister pleads, “My light is gone.
Lend me oil, just a drop.”
Can I spare that drop and stay her grief?

I want to share, anguish overwhelms me.
I remember the instruction, the preparation,
As drop by drop I tediously filled my vessel,
Line upon line, precept by precept.

I love her, but I cannot share the precious contents.
Her cries of sorrow slice through the darkness.
I lift my light, I can but share this bit of illumination
Bursting from my filled vessel.

I must hold my place,
Even as the flame flickers in the night breeze.
When He reaches me
I will light His path, as He lit mine.

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