Dusty wind bent the tired old trees,
Their few remaining leaves turned upside down;
The air smelled of heat and pain.
Long winding river beds slept;
Deep wells drew empty buckets,
While brown grass held tight to cracked soil.
Dark shadows raced to beat the sun,
Churning and rising in power,
Their anger provoked by the dead.
The heavens grew in sorrow,
As thunder boomed from a great distance,
Fuming at the condition below.
The heartland was lost and decimated,
So desperate for living water
It no longer remembered the taste.
The ground shook; the Iight flashed;
The cursed sun swallowed up in wrath,
And the clouds wept.
Behind the lines
On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’ (John 7:37-38)