Isaac, aged with sight grown dim,

Called his eldest, strong of limb.

“My son,” he said, “draw near to me,

Let my blessing flow, as it must be.”

“Take your bow and hunter’s pride,

Bring me game from the wild outside. Prepare a meal, rich and fine,

That my soul bless you,

Before it’s time.”

Thus spoke the father, frail yet wise,

A moment sealed beneath the skies.

A son’s devotion, a father’s care,

A blessing destined, yet unaware.