Poems on the Akedah

We thank Rabbi Stephen S. Pearce for sharing excerpts of his collection of poetry on the Akedah.

The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young (1916)

by Wilfred Owen

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

Sarah and the Binding of Isaac (Excerpt)

A Modern Midrash on Genesis 22
by Karen Soria

...Sarah struggled to stop the dream, to snatch away her son. But the dream slipped out of her grasp as she felt the universe spinning around her and images whirling about her: altar, wood, firestone, Isaac; wood, firestone, Isaac, Abraham; altar, Isaac, Abraham, knife; firestone, Isaac, Abraham; altar, Isaac, Abraham, knife; firestone, Isaac, Abraham, knife; Isaac, Abraham, ram. The images flashed too quickly for her to separate them. But a ram—she had seen a ram. Abraham, lift your eyes and see! He lifted the knife. Blinded by a fear and light greater than any she had ever known, Sarah screamed, "Abraham! Abraham!"

And Abraham heard the angel of the Lord calling him.

Aching Isaac

by Stephen S. Pearce

Aching Isaac
remembering
the long days
and nights
before the last journey's
mountain ascent
flashing silvery knife,
bleating frightened ram,
fire's pungent smoke,
blood stained hands,
old man's mutterings,
youth's disappointment,
questioned:
"Abba, are you all right?"
the stammering old man
talked
to God
to aching Isaac,
to himself
on ever foggy nights.

The abba who struggled with son
knife in hand,
rope at side
wood piled high,
is not the abba
who once held tight this now grown child.
Yielding pasty gray hands
hold ruddy arms
while supplanted abba
weeps in thickets of confusion
concealing
seedtime harvest.

Embarrassed,
aching Isaac
chronicles a more noble tale.