The Woman at the Well (part 1)

The outcast came at noon. The time

When noses high and looks sublime

Shaped the sneering maiden faces

Who, deep down, with hidden traces

Knew this shameful wretch was no worse

Than they. The husbands they would curse

At home could vouch: “If only walls

Could talk”, they’d tell the sins—the calls—

Of scorn and disregard they’d spew

At the harlot, thrice wed, plus two.

All this to shield their crimes and doubt

“Will my own transgressions come out?”


It’s noon. She’s all alone—though eyes

Piercing a dozen drapes—belies

Her movements at the village well

Are concealed. “Drink, please.” The words fell

From the Man who reached the spring just

As she—learning later He must

Have been there at just that moment,

For Providence guides the One sent

To bestow living water to

Thirsty souls. “How can you, a Jew,

Solicit me for anything,

And risk the shame that this would bring?”

(John 4:1-9)

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