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Exhausted, the old man craws through the sea of burning sand, his brow wrinkled, sunburnt, 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 creature 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 a view of a snow-capped mountain in sight 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 refreshing fresh drink from the melting snow atop the mountain, to quench the old man's thirst.
(Streams of living water come rushing through the Book; bringing One's shed blood from the rugged cross upon the hill, to quench a burdened soul.)
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.
© 2016 Charles Newcombe