Oh my lamp is shining weakly, while my jar is clinging to her last remainders. Hope is weakening, while faith is keeping herself scarce. There is no institution or government that can be trusted anymore, yes because the foundation of the future was built on material hell-sludge.  

In a year so grey and bleak, mass grave upon mass grave are quickly dug. With information withheld from the man in the street, the broadcasting corporations will regret this deeply.

Oh the lamp is burning weakly and the widow’s jar is kept back for saving. One after the next page of the Book of Revelation is now opened. Yes, while tears of bitter sorrow will dew onto the planet.

For the last time a rescue hand is held out to a brother, but in answer he is just again brutally rejected, pushed away and snapped at.

The light of the lamp is burning dim and weak and the oil and flour is too miserable to show. Faith and hope become a luxury and the one that still has it, must cling to it jealously. Yes, like one that has to chew slowly on his last, precious piece of bread.

Oh my little lamp is burning weakly, while my jar is miserly clinging to her last bit of flour. Look, in God-silence, the Spirit is beginning to make Herself scarce. And this in a time where man begins to regret his precious live, just like Job of old.