Dwelling in the tabernacles
Of the most high- -are lamps.
Lighting the weary pilgrims' way
As they travel the dreary night-are lamps.
Swinging aloft in great Cathedrals
Beaming on rich and poor alike-are lamps.
Flickering fitfully in harlot dives
Wanton as they that dwell therein-are lamps.
Ivory, Gold, Bronze and Ebony-
Yet all are lamps
And their lives the lights.
Some flames rise high above the horizon
And urge others to greater power.
Some burn steadfast thru the night
To welcome the prodigal home.
Others flicker weakly, lacking oil to burn
And slowly die unnoticed.
What matter how bright the flame
How weak?
What matter how high it blazes
How low?
A puff of wind will put it out.
You and I are lamps-Ebony lamps.
Our flame glows red and rages high within
But our ebon shroud becomes a shadow
And our light seems weak and low.
Break that shadow
And let the flame illumine heaven
Or blow wind ... blow ...
And let our feeble lights go out