He Beholds my Face

He meets me at the well,
asks me for a drink
in this my usual place
and his enquiring face greets
my weary weathered face,
my dirty dusty face,
my midday mid-life face, yet
he beholds my face.

He has no water jar
but he pours words
into my pain-filled space,
my guilt-filled place,
inviting me to face
my deep avoidance place, yet
this prophet man of grace
beholds my face.

So this well within
becomes a spring,
a bubbling babbling watering place,
an ever-drawing deeper place,
my Messiah meeting place,
my whole life’s breathing space, because
he beholds my face.