Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear:
what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking
of your own grief, kill your son unknowing
of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing?
Abraham, you must know or hope that God
will not allow your son to die; you must know
that this is a test, but then why
are you so bent on Isaac’s destruction?
Look at your eyes; there is more than fear
there. I see in your eyes desperation,
a manic passion to do right by your God
whom you are not able to see or know.
Am I too late? I will try to stay
your old hands, the knife clenched
within them, intent on ending life.
Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking,
or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram?