Peter's Sestina of the Rose and the Cross

We slept that night, for everything was still
except the sobs that to Christ's blood did cling,
until we heard a racket come into
the garden as the soldiers tramped across
the greenery: then we awoke, each one,
and from our dreams of destiny arose.

As we from sleeping, Christ from weeping rose.
He rose from grief, and yet he bore grief still:
he alone bore the grief of everyone—
their sufferings and sins to him did cling.
Yet he was not angry, not even cross,
but beyond sorrow, his heart broke in two.

We were bewildered, slowly coming to
our senses, startled as are shot-at roes.
I took my sword, an omen of a cross,
and slashed an ear off.  Compassionate still,
Christ placed it back and caused the flesh to cling.
Christ said, "Take me—I alone am the one

you seek—and let these go."  And I, for one,
did go, though distantly followed him to
the high priest's court; yet to this lie did cling:
"I do not know him!" Hear how the cock crows!
I heard it twice (and yet I hear it still
in dreams); and then a shadow fell across

my soul as Christ looked at me from across
the courtyard. I ran out and wept as one
bereaved of child weeps (and I weep still
to think of it). My bitter cries screamed to
the night. The sobs that then within me rose!
I determined ever after to cling

to Christ; yet on the morrow Christ did cling
(secured by nails) to the shape of a cross,
as a lily among thorns, or a rose.
I thought then the devil had surely won.
It did not cross my mind Christ had won, too.
I meditate on that victory still,

and still cling to the cross of one who rose.