"Story of Isaac," by Leonard Cohen, and "The Parable of the Old Man and the Young," by Wilfred Owen

“Story of Isaac”
(listen to the song here)

The door it opened slowly
My father he came in
I was nine years old
And he stood so tall above me
Blue eyes they were shining
And his voice was very cold
Said, "I've had a vision
And you know I'm strong and holy
I must do what I've been told."
So he started up the mountain
I was running, he was walking
And his ax was made of gold

Well, the trees they got much smaller
The lake a lady's mirror
We stopped to drink some wine
Then he threw the bottle over
Broke a minute later
And he put his hand on mine
Thought I saw an eagle
But it might have been a vulture
I never could decide
Then my father built an altar
He looked once behind his shoulder
He knew I would not hide

You who build the altars now
To sacrifice these children
You must not do it anymore
A scheme is not a vision
And you never have been tempted
By a demon or a god
You who stand above them now
Your hatchets blunt and bloody
You were not there before
When I lay upon a mountain
And my father's hand was trembling
With the beauty of the word

And if you call me brother now
Forgive me if I inquire
"Just according to whose plan?"
When it all comes down to dust
I will kill you if I must
I will help you if I can
When it all comes down to dust
I will help you if I must
I will kill you if I can
And mercy on our uniform
Man of peace or man of war
The peacock spreads his fan

+ Leonard Cohen
(listen to the song here)

The late, great Canadian poet and songwriter, Leonard Cohen, interprets the ancient story of Abraham and Isaac (which many Christian churches will read this coming Sunday, all over the world — and which Muslims will also commemorate this week, using their version of the story, on the major holiday of Eid al-Adha (“Feast of Sacrifice”)) as a devastating critique, as Cohen put it, “about those who would sacrifice one generation on behalf of another.”

Throughout the song, Cohen plumbs the story’s profound ambiguity, the knife’s edge between faith and folly, devotion and despotism, killing and helping, violence and peace. And so he raises the questions: In what ways are we today, despite our best intentions, effectively sacrificing our children? And however we act, whichever “side” we are on, are our actions more like a noble eagle, an opportunistic vulture, a showy peacock — or all three? These themes place the song in the tradition of reading the ancient story as a meditation on intergenerational, sacrificial violence, much like Wilfred Owen did decades earlier, in the context of World War I (see below).

“The Parable of the Old Man and the Young”

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

+ Wilfred Owen

Born in 1893 in Shropshire, England, Owen is one of the great poets to memorialize World War I, turning sharply away from any valorization of the war. A gay man, Owen often celebrated male beauty, camaraderie, and vulnerability in his poems. He was killed on the battlefield in France on November 4, 1918, at the age of 25, just one week before the war’s end. His poetry, published posthumously, struck many of his early readers as a kind of voice from the grave, admonishing a world consumed by war and its wake of loss and grief.

Finally, read SALT’s commentary on the story of Abraham and Isaac here.