Apostrophe to Water

Paul Denton



There is the liquor which God the eternal brews for all his children. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odours and rank corruptions, doth your Father in Heaven prepare the precious essence of life – pure cold water.

But in the green glade and grassy dell where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down – low down in the deepest valley where the fountain murmurs and the rills sing; and high upon the mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder storms crash, and far out on the wild, wide sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar the chorus, sweeping the march of God – there he brews it, that beverage of life, health giving water.

And everywhere it is a thing of beauty –

gleaming in the dewdrop;

singing in the summer rain;

shining in the ice gem till the trees all seem turned to living jewels;

spreading a golden veil over the setting sun or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the glacier;

folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world;

and weaving the many coloured iris, that seraph's zone of the sky whose warp is the rain drops of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checked over with celestial fire by the mystic hand of refraction.

Still always it is beautiful – that blessed life water! No poison bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep burning tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the world of eternal despair!

Speak out, my friends: would you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?