Many days had passed in peace, and Abraham's household thrived under the open heavens. But then came a whisper from eternity—a summons none could ignore.
"Abraham," the voice of the Most High thundered softly like the rustling wind through desert cedars.
The old man stirred from prayer and answered, "Here I am."
The voice was steady, unwavering. "Take your son, your only son—Isaac, whom you love—and go to the land of Moriah. There, upon a mountain I shall show you, offer him as a burnt sacrifice to Me."
Not a word of protest escaped Abraham's lips. The dawn had barely kissed the horizon when he rose. With solemn hands he saddled his donkey, cleaved wood for the fire, and summoned two of his servants. Then, hand in hand with his beloved son, he journeyed toward destiny.
Three days they trekked through wild hills and barren plains, until at last, Abraham lifted his eyes and saw the shadowed outline of the mount.
"Stay here with the donkey," he said to his servants, voice calm but eyes haunted. "The boy and I will go yonder to worship—and then we shall return."
Isaac bore the wood upon his young shoulders, while Abraham carried the fire and blade, silent as a storm gathering strength. But Isaac, perceptive and pure, turned his gaze up to his father.
"Father," he asked.
"Yes, my son?"
"We have the fire and the wood... but where is the lamb for the offering?"
Abraham's heart shuddered within him. Yet he replied with faith strong as iron: "God Himself will provide the lamb, my son."
Together they climbed, wind sweeping their robes like banners. At the summit, Abraham built an altar from the stones of the earth, then laid the wood in order. With trembling hands, he bound Isaac—his promise, his joy, his miracle—and placed him upon the altar.
Then Abraham reached for the blade, lifted high over the son he loved more than life.
But the skies split with a cry, and an angel's voice rang out, "Abraham! Abraham!"
He froze mid-strike. "Here I am," he gasped.
"Do not touch the boy!" the voice commanded. "Do him no harm. Now I know you fear God, for you have not withheld from Him your son, your only son."
Abraham lowered the blade, tears hot on his weathered face. And there—entangled by its horns in a thicket—a ram stood waiting, as if summoned by the breath of heaven.
He released Isaac, embraced him, and together they offered the ram upon the altar. Abraham named the place Yahweh Yireh—The LORD Will Provide—a name sung by travelers and prophets ever since.
The angel spoke once more from above, the voice echoing with eternal weight: "The Lord said, 'because you have done this, and have not withheld your only son, I swear by Myself—I will bless you beyond reckoning. Your descendants shall be as numerous as the stars of the heavens and the sands of the shore. They shall possess the gates of their enemies. And through your seed, all nations of the earth shall be blessed—because you have obeyed Me."
So Abraham and Isaac descended the mountain together, hearts blazing with awe. They returned to Beersheba, where the tent of the patriarch once again stood tall in the desert wind.
In time, word came from distant lands. Milcah, wife of Abraham's brother Nahor, had borne him sons—Uz, Buz, Kemuel (father of Aram), Kesed, Hazo, Pildash, Jidlaph, and Bethuel. And Bethuel became the father of Rebekah, a name that would one day change the course of destiny.
Reumah, Nahor's concubine, bore Tebah, Gaham, Tahash, and Maacah. But for now, all eyes turned toward the mountain—for the fire of that day still smoldered in the soul of Abraham.