The courtyard flickered with shadows cast by torches mounted on stone walls. Jerusalem was still catching its breath from Passover’s crowds, but tension lingered like smoke—Romans on edge, temple guards prowling, and whispers of rebellion growing louder. I huddled beside a fire, pretending to warm my hands, though my chest burned with fear. They had taken Him—Jesus—and I had followed, but only from a safe distance, hidden in the swell of night.
I had sworn I’d never leave Him. Sworn it in front of the others. Sworn it to His face. And yet here I was. Hiding.
The servant girl noticed me first. “Aren’t you one of His followers?” she said, eyeing me with skepticism.
My heart leapt into my throat. Heads turned. Guards shifted.
“I don’t know Him,” I heard myself say. My voice was too loud, too sharp—like a blade swung in panic.
I turned away quickly, pretending interest in the fire. But the heat didn’t warm me. It only lit the shame beginning to take root.
Moments passed. Then a man pointed. “You’re one of them. Galilean, aren’t you?”
Again I denied it, this time with more urgency, my accent unraveling me.
Then, a third voice—this one certain, like a hammer falling. “I saw you with Him in the garden.”
Sweat slicked my palms. I felt cornered, stripped bare. What had I become?
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I barked, anger rising to smother the fear. My fists clenched, but inside, something shattered.
And then—before I could breathe, before I could run—the sound came.
The rooster crowed.
I turned instinctively. There, across the courtyard, they led Jesus through the gate. His face was bruised. Bleeding. Yet somehow, He looked up… and met my eyes.
The gaze held no accusation. Not even surprise. Just… sorrow. And something far worse—love. Deep, knowing love that reached past my layers of cowardice and into the place that still longed to belong to Him.
I fled.
I stumbled through alleyways until dawn broke over the city walls. I collapsed beside a stone well, away from the voices, the questions, the lies. Tears poured from me—ugly and unrelenting. I had denied my Friend. My Master. My Lord.
I don’t know how long I sat there, face in hands, when I heard footsteps. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to be seen.
But then the voice came—soft, close.
“Peter.”
I froze. My name.
I raised my head slowly.
Jesus stood before me—blood no longer fresh, body marked but standing. Alive.
I gasped. The world tilted.
He didn’t scold. He didn’t flinch.
He only said, “Do you still love Me?”
The question hit me like rain after drought. I broke again, but not from shame—from mercy.
“Yes, Lord,” I whispered. “You know I do.”
He nodded, tears touching His eyes too. “Then follow Me.”
And just like that, I was no longer hiding.
I stood that morning—redeemed not in secrecy, but in sunrise.
The courtyard flickered with shadows cast by torches mounted on stone walls. Jerusalem was still catching its breath from Passover’s crowds, but tension lingered like smoke—Romans on edge, temple guards prowling, and whispers of rebellion growing louder. I huddled beside a fire, pretending to warm my hands, though my chest burned with fear. They had taken Him—Jesus—and I had followed, but only from a safe distance, hidden in the swell of night.
I had sworn I’d never leave Him. Sworn it in front of the others. Sworn it to His face. And yet here I was. Hiding.
The servant girl noticed me first. “Aren’t you one of His followers?” she said, eyeing me with skepticism.
My heart leapt into my throat. Heads turned. Guards shifted.
“I don’t know Him,” I heard myself say. My voice was too loud, too sharp—like a blade swung in panic.
I turned away quickly, pretending interest in the fire. But the heat didn’t warm me. It only lit the shame beginning to take root.
Moments passed. Then a man pointed. “You’re one of them. Galilean, aren’t you?”
Again I denied it, this time with more urgency, my accent unraveling me.
Then, a third voice—this one certain, like a hammer falling. “I saw you with Him in the garden.”
Sweat slicked my palms. I felt cornered, stripped bare. What had I become?
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I barked, anger rising to smother the fear. My fists clenched, but inside, something shattered.
And then—before I could breathe, before I could run—the sound came.
The rooster crowed.
I turned instinctively. There, across the courtyard, they led Jesus through the gate. His face was bruised. Bleeding. Yet somehow, He looked up… and met my eyes.
The gaze held no accusation. Not even surprise. Just… sorrow. And something far worse—love. Deep, knowing love that reached past my layers of cowardice and into the place that still longed to belong to Him.
I fled.
I stumbled through alleyways until dawn broke over the city walls. I collapsed beside a stone well, away from the voices, the questions, the lies. Tears poured from me—ugly and unrelenting. I had denied my Friend. My Master. My Lord.
I don’t know how long I sat there, face in hands, when I heard footsteps. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to be seen.
But then the voice came—soft, close.
“Peter.”
I froze. My name.
I raised my head slowly.
Jesus stood before me—blood no longer fresh, body marked but standing. Alive.
I gasped. The world tilted.
He didn’t scold. He didn’t flinch.
He only said, “Do you still love Me?”
The question hit me like rain after drought. I broke again, but not from shame—from mercy.
“Yes, Lord,” I whispered. “You know I do.”
He nodded, tears touching His eyes too. “Then follow Me.”
And just like that, I was no longer hiding.
I stood that morning—redeemed not in secrecy, but in sunrise.
