Isaac's Wine

My father never heard the shepherd’s lute
arpeggios lifting over autumn nights
the way I’ve heard them, taken song with fruit
and drunk their depths and risen to their heights.
He never owned the music nor the grace
of freedom to explore the fertile lands
beyond the fields where labor wrapped its brace
around his soul and dulled his splendid hands.
He raged with hunger--sought the tender lamb,
knew well the hunter finds and slays the beast
but never grasped the inner force “I am”
except as One who sacrificed His least.
I am the least--and will not live in fear.
The shepherd's lute, oh Father, do you hear?