"Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church."
Master, did you call me a rock? I, who have had to search
And pray for strength to still the wavering within my heart,
As when I walked upon the waves, then felt my faith depart;
Or when, denying you, I heard the cock begin to crow,
And wept the tears of deep remorse, of bitter shame and woe.
The only rock that I knew then was just the heavy stone
That lay across my heart to think that I left you alone.
So many times I did things wrong, holding fast to creeds,
Suggesting tabernacles made of stones instead of deeds,
Taking you to task for being faithful to your Lord,
Unsheathing in an unpropitious hour my erring sword.
It would have seemed not strange at all if you had wondered why
You had been led to choose so indiscreet a one as I.
And yet I know you must have looked through all these faults to see,
Deeper than all of my mistakes, the man I longed to be.
And unwise though I often was. sometimes I felt the power
That animated you, and proved it in a holy hour,
As when three thousand heard my word and turned from scorn to praise,
Or when I healed the mendicant and felt his grateful gaze,
Or lifted up the kindly one, who all declared had died,
Or when through prison doors I walked, an angel for my guide.
