Then poor little Isaac went down on his knees and entreated his father to spare him:
“Alas! father,” he sobbed, “is that your will,
Your own child here for to spill
Upon this hill’s brink?
If I have trespassed in any degree
With a rod you may beat me;
Put up your sword, if your will be,
For I am but a child....
Would God my mother were here with me!
She would kneel upon her knee,