Poetry

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Moriah

Moriah has been climbed
and the wood neatly laid out.
The sacrifice is bound.

Memories flash, and the tears begin
to flow.
Suddenly I hear again, the voice of
the Master say:

"And there sacrifice your love, your
only love, to me."

"But will there be a substitute; or
will you raise it up again?" I
queried my heart's plea.

"I will make no promise," was His
solemn answer to me.

"Then I must trust You - Your
faithfulness, Your love, Your care."
Then in teary-eyed obedience, I raised
my knife into the air.

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