Exhausted, the old man craws through the sea of scorching sand, his brow wrinkled, sun burnt, and weather-beaten, his attire drenched with sweat.
The vultures, circling overhead, are ready: at the first sign of death, they shall swoop down and devour his flesh. Flat on his back at high noon, the sun beating down, with hoarseness of breath the old man cries, “I thirst.”
A winged beast perches on his chest and pierces the old man’s cheek. A swat of his hand, and the beast flies off: “I ain’t down yet,” he cries. Clenching to the rug of burning sand, he drags on through the plain, fighting for his life.
He staggers to his feet and pushes on across the burning, scorching sand—the beasts, overhead ever nearer, sensing that death is sure; with view of a snow-capped mountain the old man shoves on, where at the foot he may find rest.
Streams of rushing water speed rapidly down from the mountainside, bringing a cool fresh drink from the melting snow atop the mountain, that the old man’s thirst might be quenched.
(Streams of living water come rushing through the Book; bringing One’s shed blood from the rugged cross upon the hill, that a burdened soul might be quenched.)
A new life is given—the life of the One who died for him and rose again—revived, refreshed, renewed, quickened to tell others of the life that was given him, that their thirst too might be quenched.
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