Lech l'cha

Two sides of beef stand witness to the b'rit
our patriarch sprawls tripping on the sand.
Where Avram chased off vultures from the meat
his seed would hold clear title to the Land.
A toothless promise, murmured in the night
no rainbow seals the end to death by Flood.
The Promised Land must still be won by fight,
the covenant's not sealed, except in blood.
The dream that Herzl swore was not a dream
was wrested from the Ottomans' defeat
a remedy for peace-time too extreme
took war and devastation to complete.
Yet Makhpelah's not his, 'til it's been bought;
the Conquest--foreordained--must still be fought.