Above me on the ridge an old grey ram
With ragged fleece, black muzzle, and yellow eye,
Tangled in briars, against the lurid sky
Seems even now to await the Abraham
Who shall release and slay him — patiently
On this high altar of bleak stone and ice,
With head bowed ready for the sacrifice,
To await the whetted blade of destiny.

He waits unwondering, foreboding naught,
With blank cold shallow eye and easy breath,
Nor knows himself the destined victim caught,
Nor dreads the slicing sacrificial knife —
While Abraham, ever in the shadow of death,
Trembles to look upon the angel of life.