When the deluge came and the waters rose, many men and women in terror did flee to high ground. There, still, the waters would chase them, that churning sea, whose maw was black and teeth foaming white, would pursue them. Having reached the mountain's peak, they clung desperately to the rocks. However rough or deep they cut, the people would not release their trembling hands from those jagged rocks, as the cold and fierce maelstrom tore at their flesh.
They held on in fear. Fear of the death that rose all about them, a death that relentlessly threatened to engulf and consume them. Their holding on was futile, as that inevitability washed over their eyes and ears, and only in death, accepting their fate, their defeat, did they come to rest, to sink, to be at peace.
They held on in hope. Hope that the fate thundering toward them may relax its pursuit, that they might see destiny recede its advance. The rock might be an anchor to them, a saviour, or a redeemer. To them the rock was a god - it was life. That hope blinded them from the truth of their damnation. Oh! The horror they might have been spared had they come away from that rugged stone and embraced the churning water. What peace they might have had - what calm.
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