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Sin-parched land;
Heat flickering, rising.
Air thick with heat.
Sky bleached, colorless.
Skin burning.
 
Waiting for rain.
Poised, paused,
Breath-holding,
Watching, wondering—
Will it come?
 
Tiny fist of cloud,
White as wool
Against a deep azure sky—
Blindingly brilliant,
Dazzlingly glorious.
 
Exponentially it grows,
Billowing, burgeoning
To towering masses—
Pregnant with
Grace rain.
 
One drop,
A cool, crystal diamond.
Two, then three,
Then, extravagant,
Profligate, luxuriant
 
Rain!
Drops too many to count—
Running, racing,
Rejoining into rivulets
And rivers.
 
And I want to bathe,
swim, splash,
Jump for joy
In the river of
Your Salvation;
 
To sate my
soul-thirst
With deep draughts
Of  never-ending
Grace.
 
~RDB
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