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I hear a voice command: Don’t damage the oil and even less the last bit of flour. And woe to the hand that steals from another. Meted with one’s own measure, everyone’s share is now measured out. Therefore do not damage the last oil nor the last bit of flour.

The last signs of the times are now desperately analysed. Behold, the grindstone lies broken, it lies broken at the mill. The pitcher lies shattered, while the housewife grumbles about her wasted oil. I hear a voice command: Ration-ration, gone with the good old days of commercial sales.

With little left in the global diet. The mothers weep, oh, what will our children eat? Time is again measured out for the masses in the old curfew. The answer comes in quarantine over many plagues, in disease upon disease.

Again, I hear a voice command: Don’t damage the oil and even less the last bit of flour. Look, in body, soul and spirit some do become complete. Because the Holy Place is already sealed for them, measured out with a set-apart reed for the New Jerusalem.