Ziyi Chang

Woke up at dawn,
Tied down the cut wood,
Onto the shoulders of Isaac,
As I walk with you.

Swinging a half-moon shaped knife,
I cut through thorns and thistles,
Yet not through Sarah’s worrying expressions,
As she stood at the front door.

As for the torch,
The torch luminated the fear and tremor
along the way that was even more desolate
than the chilling night.

As for the lamb,
The innocent boy asked,
“Father, where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”
With a quavering voice, I said,
“My son, you are the lamb.”

Last night’s starlight stung my eyes.
This morning, we continue our journey.
Panting as we climb up that mountain.

Built an altar. Arranged the wood.
Tied Isaac onto the wood on the altar.
Extended my hand. Just as I took out the knife to …
take his life. Not too early nor too late,

The angel of the Lord called out from heaven:
“Do not lay a hand on the boy.
Now I know that you fear God,
Because you have not withheld from me your son.”

I looked up. Unexpectedly,
A ram, caught by its horns in the bushes …

(12/26/2010 Boston, 11/13/2023 Revised, 12/11/2023 Translated by Samuel Chang)