Times I wish to be back, hauling
nets, often unfilled, inevitable
smell of fish on my hands, my hair,
my clothes, my feet, what my father
said I was born to do, hothead that
My enthusiasm, my bravado,
tamed, three times
No bravado now, when I stand
before crowds, before priests,
only words, measured words,
quiet words marked with a conviction
I did not know, then, words
coming from external to me, shaking
my very being before embedding
in my heart.
Three times I lied
three times I denied
one time I ran and hid
They listen, not all, some
only hear, and afterward
I stand amazed at what
God does with liars,
This poem began with listening to a sermon on Acts 3:1-10 and 19-20.
Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.