He holds me in place, gently yet firmly, knowing I won’t run.
I refuse to struggle against his grip – the ever-obedient son.
After all, Father knows best, even when I can’t make sense of it.
I just can’t help wondering, how will my suffering give anyone benefit?
As my hand brushes my skin, fear bumps swell in unison on my chest,
my face and heart involuntarily question the logic of my father’s request.
Why ask this of me? Why this? Why me? Why take what I might freely give?
Before my fears can grip me, rip me, I flip my tears away, or dam them where they live.
My adam’s apple’s swelling and getting harder to swallow.
But from Father’s eyes come peace, certainty, grace; my eyes follow.
Courage can mean a lot of things, but it does not mean fearless.
And what of Mother? Will she still laugh, or in her mourning remain tearless?
I try not to dwell too long on the coming scene, on how I will die.
I try not to think too much of the altar of twigs, of where I will lie.
Or even consider the cords that may bind my hands and feet.
My father will surely make it quick – finished before my first bleat.
So I rest on one knee, where the sacrificial oil will flow,
hesitating slightly, in case mercy he decides to bestow.
My weak body caving to my spirit yet willing:
Father, if you will, take from me this cup of suffering.
