My feet leave blood upon this mountain path.
They seek the stones that tear at them--
that tear away my thoughts of Isaac,
far ahead of me,
effusive in his lust for the unknown;
these stones that speak to me alone
of an ineffable command.
of love I do not understand--
are they already stained with irony?
My son! Come back! The light is fast away.
Here are the stones as we might cause
to be the table of the Holy One...
see how they fit together!
Now you and I will labor in the night;
it is more suited to our task...and then
the labor is of God, please Lord, not mine!
Not mine, the lamb:
not mine, the shadow of the day.
But as it must, darkness capitulates:
the leering altar stands complete;
the last reluctant wood in place--
the morning sun upon that empty bier,
a tremulous Abraham,
an anxious son,
a knife still restless in its sheath.
No ram in sight.
Whose act was it that arrested.
that bare arm's descent that morn...
Satan's caprice? Or do you plead
the changeless word of God?