When des­cend­ing from the sky
The Bride­groom shall ap­pear;
And the so­lemn mid­night cry,
Shall call pro­fess­ors near:
How the sound our hearts will damp!
How will shame o’er­spread each face!
If we on­ly have a lamp,
Without the oil of grace.

Foolish vir­gins then will wake
And seek for a sup­ply;
But in vain the pains they take
To bor­row or to buy:
Then with those they now des­pise,
Earnestly they’ll wish to share;
But the best, among the wise,
Will have no oil to spare.

Wise are they, and tru­ly blest,
Who then shall rea­dy be
But des­pair will seize the rest,
And dread­ful mi­se­ry:
Once, they’ll cry, we scorned to doubt,
Though in lies our trust we put;
Now our lamp of hope is out,
The door of mer­cy shut.

If they then pre­sume to plead,
Lord op­en to us now;
We on earth have heard and prayed,
And with thy saints did bow:
He will an­swer from His throne,
Though you with My peo­ple mixed,
Yet to Me you ne’er were known,
Depart, your doom is fixed.

O that none who wor­ship here
May hear that word, De­part!
Lord im­press a god­ly fear
On each pro­fess­or’s heart:
Help us, Lord, to search the camp,
Let us not our­selves be­guile;
Trusting to a dy­ing lamp
Without a stock of oil.