Small wonder that you set upon your way,
even before the sun explored my tent.
You knew I would have questioned
and quickly suspected the horror of your purpose.
What should it mean to me
that some voice in your head
urged you to slaughter my son,
binding him like an animal on the altar?
Every voice in my head
would have shouted madman! murderer!
Who is fit to judge
which of our voices is God?
Men will meet for centuries to come
waving swords in different names,
each tearing the flesh of the other,
I do not understand a God that needs this test.
My God bids me feed my child, shelter strangers,
gather in ripe fruits.
Is that not grand enough?
I raised a son with laughter in his eyes.
They are glassy now with terror.
For this I will forgive neither you
nor your God.
I am old, Abraham. Most days
my strength is small. But do not be deceived.
If ever again you raise a weapon to my child,
I will defend him with all the fury in my withered hands.
And who could be certain
which of us had truly heard
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Copyright ©2001 by Gail Golden