Famine strikes deep the land, rending dry
Hearts aching with thirst. No rain falls.
Wells bear muddy water rich with slime.
A few souls struggle up the hill
Outside the city to Jacob's well.
Bucket after bucket is lifted and gone.
Voices clamor for more, but no more
Lies within the emptied well, and still
No rain falls. Dry, useless, cistern waits,
Cut off from the deep springs by stone
Well-laid long time hence, a tribute
To the cunning foe that placed it there.
The strong one cannot roll away the stone
Blocking the spring of Father's gift
Trapped in mother earth, life tight-sealed.
Seekers drift away, foiled, deluded
By hopes laid in distant mirage. One
Remains, knees bent, head bowed, lost.
If the Father's spring flows not again,
Bursts not through earth and stone to quench
Thirst, give life, then well becomes a tomb.
