of night cracked red
over the eastern walls
of the city and Peter wept
when the cock crowed.
No roosters here,
the gobblers, hawks
and sparrows rouse
from their roosts
and the first crows
take flight from pine
to oak to power pole.
The prisoner in the
courtyard of the priest
keeps his silence.
Anything he says
will be used against
him in a court of law.
Lets the accusers put their
own words in his mouth.
It is as you say.
And he has made
his peace with what
he knows will come.
He has not slept.
I see the silhouette
of my head on the red
wall that faces my desk.
The sun has just arisen.
Like it has seven hundred
and twenty seven thousand
five hundred and twenty eight
times since that morning when
it broke over that house,
that earthly prison,
where thin justification
replaced justice with sin.
He knew it would come
to pass as surely as
it had been written.
On this day he would
be flogged and crowned
with thorns and nailed
to the man-made tree.
Now our thorny vines
are made from shining
coils of steel. And they
guard the city where
I once kissed the slab
on which his tormented
body was laid to rest.
And a shock ran through
my body from the crown
of my head down the crest
of my spine and my tears
joined the warm ocean
of all those that fell here
before me.
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