Too Late

Stop! yelled the angel,but the old man didn’t hear—it was windy,and at a hundred years oldhis hearing wasn’t what it was,neither were his reflexes.

So the knife was already falling,with all the weight of his faith in that hand.

The bound boy did not cry out.

Or if he did, it was carried on the wind,past his father, straight to God.

Then silence.

The ram stood in the thicket,tethered and useless,chewing on a thorn.

Oh, God said.