The Denial of Saint Peter

  What does God do with the wave of curses
  That rises every day toward his dear Seraphim?
  Like a tyrant gorged with food and wine, he falls asleep
  To the sweet sound of our horrible blasphemies.

  The sobs of martyrs and of tortured criminals
  Are doubtless an enchanting symphony,
  Since, despite the blood that this pleasure costs,
  The heavens have not yet been surfeited with it!

  In your naïveté you prayed on your knees to
  Him Who in His heaven laughed at the sound of the nails
  Being driven into your living flesh;

  When you saw them spitting on your divinity,
  That vile mob of body-guards and scullions,
  And when you felt the thorns go deep
  Into your skull where lived immense Humanity,

  When the horrible weight of your broken body
  Lengthened your two outstretched arms, when your blood
  And sweat flowed from your paling brow,
  When you were placed before them all like a target,

  Did you dream of those days so brilliant and so fair
  When you came to fulfill the eternal promise,
  When the gentle donkey you were riding trampled
  The branches and flowers strewn in your path,

  When, your heart swollen with courage and hope,
  You lashed those vile money-changers with all your might,
  In a word, when you were master? Did not remorse
  Penetrate your side deeper than the spear?

  A world where action is not the sister of dreams;
  Would that I could take up the sword and perish by the sword!
  Saint Peter denied Jesus — he did well!