I think of Jacob, tired, alone,
His best adversary gone,
Jacob, an arm half-through his sleeve,
Doubting, fighting to believe
That the wrestler whom he’d hurt,
Tripped, and set down in the dirt,
Embraced in fear, and strangling, pinned—
Had not like him, Jacob, sinned;
And that, against his better sense And what there was of evidence,
He, he, Jacob, lamed and spent,
Fast losing his astonishment,
More earth’s now even than the dirt on him
Was—the champion of heaven!
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