The Waters Of Hope Poem by Deborah Way

When the water comes we'll be a river
touching places we can not envision
as we serve here, at its source.

When the waters come we'll be a spring
notably hot or cold, but never tepid.

When the waters come we'll be a fountain
relinquishing all we receive to powerful diffusing jets,
jets that send the water places it could never naturally go.

When the water comes we'll be a river
crossing great distance
persistently getting around any barrier.

When the waters come we'll be a spring
glittering elemental
and unpolluted.

When the waters come we'll be a fountain
taking water at its most basic presentation
and putting it on artful, splashing display.

But for now,
I am the Samaritan woman,
standing by the well of Jacob
in the noon day heat
when no shame will confront me;

And you are David,
longing for the waters
from the Bethlehem well
as you are battle weary and thirsting.

But I will become the world's first missionary,
to those I assumed despise me,
but who instead believe.

And you will spill those waters the mighty ones bring you.
Waters of personal satisfaction poured out as an offering.

For in the end,
When the water comes we'll be a river
incorporating other branches as we flow
until we all become rushing power and invisible depth.

When the waters come we'll be a spring
a secret source who must be sought to be found
but who nevertheless will refresh distant lands.

When the waters come we'll be a fountain
splashing, sending ions of good feeling
into the air all around.

And in the very end,
When the water comes
we'll be a tide pool
whose memory and longing
to return to the sea
will be answered.