The year is one thousand seven hundred b.c.. A shepherd strips bark from an acacia branch with a short iron blade. Dust cakes the wool tunics of men who sleep on bare limestone rocks during the dry summer heat. Fatigue dulls the senses of brothers who guard sheep against wandering wolves and raiding tribes.
Gad speaks to his sons near the hills of Gilead. He recounts years of nursing hatred against Joseph within his own chest. Hatred acts as a corroded brass gear locking an axle solid. Jealousy drives men to plot murder in deep pastures. True repentance demands breaking that gear with an iron hammer.
The iron blade cuts wood without sentiment or grace. Malice operates through identical cold mechanics inside the human ribcage. A man carries resentment the way a beast bears a pack saddle until skin rubs raw. Relief arrives only when the load hits the dirt.
Hatred wears out the heart faster than heavy stones wear out the back of a beast of burden.
The pasture grass returns after winter rains wash the red dirt clean. Old arguments leave behind shallow depressions in the soil where campfires burned out completely.