His Own Hand

It was the hardest thing he ever did.
Not just to watch his son suffer,
But to be the cause.
To hold the whip in his own hand,
And let it lash that unblemished flesh.
To see the blood run red and bright,
Oozing from the crisscrossed stripes.

This was his son!
The little baby he'd held in his arms
And loved with all his heart.
The little boy he'd left.
A single ray of hope,
For a man who'd given up.

He knew he had to make it bad enough
That no one would repeat it.
It was the hardest thing he ever had to do.