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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
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