Our mother was the barren, weeping, waiting one.
She quivered and laughed in her time
to believe that something could be made of
her emptiness.

It is taking so long. We must be forgotten.
Abraham’s strength must make our child another way,
in a more fertile womb

And so came Ishmael of the slave, of the flesh
that sawed against the everlasting goodness of
God’s oath with Himself.

But Yahweh was tender and spun Isaac’s
human frame in the right place and time,
against the odds of
reproductive powers as good as dead,
silencing the rage and splintering brought by
doubt and human hands.

And we know Father Abraham as righteous
apart from things he’d done.

As Abraham’s,
we believe,
even when we can’t see the ram yet,
even when our very skin needs assurance,
(Again and again, Yahweh stoops.
Now, in bread and wine.)
even when we struggle
because we forget that we are not slaves,
but free, and righteous another way,
by believing God’s yes against the strain of our ways.

As Sarah’s,
we look to her city dancing above, Jerusalem the free –
while we finish here,
being born from nothing for that glory,
children of the promise.