After Marie Howe’s Isaac
I went though I knew I wouldn’t come back.
I carried the letter that ordered my doom.
On account of a woman I thought I could trust.
I told her not to bathe where others could see.
It’s said she mourned me.
I can’t blame her for wanting to improve her lot.
Better the eighth wife of a king
than the only bride of a man who serves him.
There’s much you learn at the moment of death:
Never marry a beautiful woman.
If given the choice, pick a wise lord.
God doesn’t weigh the fervor of prayer.
As in life, there’s a finger on the scale.
Even a Hittite is worth more than one son.
He should’ve taken the second-born too.
