Poem August 4, 1973 Issue

"SIR, GIVE ME THIS WATER..."

John 4:15

Gerald Stanwell

Preoccupied disciples cityward;
the scene—beyond the walls at dusty well
catching the golden light of noonday sun—
the Master's thoughtful innocence, alone,
at rest, in quiet obedience to his God,
uplifting thought above all hungering flesh.

Walking slowly from a fruitless day
came woman of Samaria
setting down her jar, sighing perhaps,
trapped in mocking satiety and toil,
hardly seeing who or what or where except
to draw her water and depart .

"Give me to drink."

As sudden shaft of sunlight came the voice—
a spring of fresh beholding, touched with hope.
She looked around and saw a man, a Jew
bridging a gap of prejudice and not afraid.
Dull rebellion dissolved. In disbelief
she heard herself begin: "How is it that thou . . .?"
And then that rare discussion in which the Master,
opinionless and never overburdening,
shared in immortal helpfulness, the truth
as "well of water springing up" in joy and
everlasting wonder—no, not just for her
but all the searching of forgotten years of prayer
that in the untold centuries to come
would echo again: "Give me this water . . ."
demanding not of world's impoverishment
but quenching another's thirst with living joy—
the undepleted fountain of the Christ.

Gerald Stanwell

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