St. Peter

“Launch out into the deep,” Christ spake of old To Peter: and he launched into the deep; Strengthened should tempest wake which lay asleep, Strengthened to suffer heat or suffer cold. Thus, in Christ’s Prescience: patient to behold A fall, a rise, a scaling Heaven’s high steep; Prescience of Love, which deigned to overleap The mire of human errors manifold.

Lord, Lover of Thy Peter, and of him Beloved with craving of a humbled heart Which eighteen hundred years have satisfied; Hath he his throne among Thy Seraphim Who love? or sits he on a throne apart, Unique, near Thee, to love Thee human-eyed?

St. Peter once: “Lord, dost Thou wash my feet?”— Much more I say: Lord, dost Thou stand and knock At my closed heart more rugged than a rock, Bolted and barred, for Thy soft touch unmeet, Nor garnished nor in any wise made sweet? Owls roost within and dancing satyrs mock. Lord, I have heard the crowing of the cock And have not wept: ah, Lord, Thou knowest it. Yet still I hear Thee knocking, still I hear: “Open to Me, look on Me eye to eye, That I may wring thy heart and make it whole; And teach thee love because I hold thee dear, And sup with thee in gladness soul with soul, And sup with thee in glory by and by.”

I followed Thee, my God, I followed Thee To see the end: I turned back flying from Gethsemane, Turned back on flying steps to see Thy Face, my God, my Friend.

Even fleeing from Thee my heart clave to Thee: I turned perforce Constrained, yea chained by love which maketh free; I turned perforce, and silently Followed along Thy course.

Lord, didst Thou know that I was following Thee? I weak and small Yet Thy true lover, mean tho’ I must be, Sinning and sorrowing—didst Thou see? O Lord, Thou sawest all.

I thought I had been strong to die for Thee; I disbelieved Thy word of warning spoken patiently: My heart cried, “That be far from me,” Till Thy bruised heart I grieved.

Once I had urged: “Lord, this be far from Thee:”— Rebel to light, It needed first that Thou shouldst die for me Or ever I could plumb and see Love’s lovely depth and height.

Alas that I should trust myself, not Thee; Not trust Thy word: I faithless slumberer in Gethsemane, Blinded and rash; who instantly Put trust, but in a sword.

Ah Lord, if even at the last in Thee I had put faith, I might even at the last have counselled me, And not have heaped up cruelty To sting Thee in Thy death.

Alas for me, who bore to think on Thee And yet to lie: While Thou, O Lord, didst bear to look on me Goaded by fear to blasphemy, And break my heart and die.

No balm I find in Gilead, yet in Thee Nailed to Thy palm I find a balm that wrings and comforts me: Balm wrung from Thee by agony, My balm, mine only balm.

Oh blessed John who standeth close to Thee, With Magdalene, And Thine own Mother praying silently, Yea, blessed above women she, Now blessed even as then.

And blessed the scorned thief who hangs by Thee, Whose thirsting mouth Thirsts for Thee more than water, whose eyes see, Whose lips confess in ecstasy Nor feel their parching drouth.

Like as the hart the water-brooks I Thee Desire, my hands I stretch to Thee; O kind Lord, pity me: Lord, I have wept, wept bitterly, I driest of dry lands.

Lord, I am standing far far off from Thee; Yet is my heart Hanging with Thee upon the accursed tree; The nails, the thorns, pierce Thee and me: My God, I claim my part.

Scarce in Thy throne and kingdom; yet with Thee In shame, in loss, In Thy forsaking, in Thine agony: Love crucified, behold even me, Me also bear Thy cross.