Peter's Regret

The cock crowed, a sound I’d heard a thousand times by the Sea of Galilee, but never with such a piercing, accusatory shriek. It ripped through the pre-dawn chill, each brutal cry a fresh stab into my gut. The fire in the courtyard offered little warmth against the icy dread that had seized me. I saw His face then, not as He was now, beaten and bruised, but as He was when He looked at me, full of sorrow and a love that seemed to pierce right through my cowardly heart.

“I do not know the man,” I’d stammered, the words tasting like ash. Three times. Three times I’d denied Him, the Master, the Son of God, the one who had pulled me from the nets and the ordinary life of a fisherman, the one who had shown me the very face of heaven. And with each denial, I felt a piece of myself crumble, turning to dust and scattering on the wind. The faces of the soldiers, the sneering voices of the servants – they became a blur of condemnation. But it was His gaze, the one I *imagined* He’d fixed on me, that was the true torment.

I pulled my cloak tighter, the rough wool a poor imitation of the comfort I craved. The Passover feast, the bread broken, the wine shared, the hushed pronouncements of love and sacrifice – it all seemed a lifetime ago, a dream from which I’d violently awoken. He had spoken of my denial, even foretold it, and in my foolish pride, I had sworn I would never falter. “Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you,” I’d declared, my voice ringing with a conviction I now knew was hollow. Oh, the arrogance of it! The sheer, blinding idiocy of a man who thought his own strength could rival the will of God.