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+Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear
+my small voice under the creaking of your grief.
+Your eyes are dim and connot see the ram
+as it creates itself from the bush, fashioning
+its horns from brambles, its wool from leaves,
+its hooves from the rock of the mountain.
+
+Your hand is shaky, but it is sure to its goal.
+The knife is blunt but not blunt enough.
+
+I am here to stay your hand, to blunt
+the knife, to bring the ram out from itself
+so that it can realize its purpose