You know I gave a sacrifice of my
own reputation, thinking it might be
enough. But that cheap offering God despised.
On the altar what I first withheld must bleed.
My God has power to make me just. So I
must act believing. Trust the strangers who
speak for me: “steady hand, unflinching eye
hide shaken, doubting soul.” They know the truth.
In slaying your heart I transgress, but not
as in refusing to accept the word
of God, or counting grace’s paradox
too hard upon impossible or too absurd.
This Abraham, knife raised, finds grace enough.
He must obey his God and not his love.
For this poem's context, see
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