Woman at the Well

I am a woman of no distinction,
Of little importance.
I am a woman of no reputation,
Save that which is bad.

You whisper as I pass by,
And cast judgmental glances.
Though you don’t really take the time to look at me,
Or, even get to know me.

For to be known is to be loved,
And to be loved is to be known and,
Otherwise, what’s the point of doing?
Either one of them in the first place?

I want to be known.

I want someone to look at my face,
And not just see two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and two ears,
But to see all that I am and could be.
All my hopes, loves, and fears

But that’s too much to hope for,
To wish for,
Or pray for
So I don’t, not anymore.

Now I keep to myself,
And by that I mean the pain
That keeps me in my own private jail.
The pain that has brought me here,
At midday, to this well.

To ask for a drink is no big request,
But to ask it of me,
A woman unclean, ashamed, used and abused,
An outcast, a failure, a disappointment, a sinner.

No drink passing from these hands
To your lips could ever be refreshing,
Only condemning, as I’m sure you condemn me now,
But you don’t.

You’re a man of no distinction,
Though of the utmost importance.
A man with little reputation,
At least so far.

You whisper and tell me to my face
What all those glances have been about,
And you take the time to really look at me,
But don’t need to get to know me.

For to be known is to be loved,
And to be loved is to be known,
And you know me.

You actually know me.
All of me and everything about me.
Every thought inside and hair on top of my head.
Every hurt stored up, every hope, every dread.

From my past and my future,
All I am and can be you tell me everything.
You tell me about me.

And that which is spoken by another
Would bring hate and condemnation.
Coming from you it brings love, grace,
Mercy, hope, and salvation.

I’ve heard of one to come
Who would save a wretch like me,
And here in my presence you say,
“I am he.”

To be known is to be loved,
And to be loved is to be known.

And I just met you,
But I love you.
I don’t know you,
But I want to get to.

Let me run back to town;
This is way too much for just me.
There are others–
Brothers, sisters, lovers, haters,

The good and the bad, sinners and saints
Who should hear what you have told me,
Who should see what you have shown me,
Who should taste what you gave me,
Who should feel how you forgave me.

For to be known is to be loved,
And to be loved is to be known.

And they all need this too.
We all do.
We need it for our own.