I am not here Peter. Please promise
in the morn, while sounds combine
and—loud—cries morrow rooster,
turn, tears, repent.

I, to the hill climb: bright Calvary!
My arm bent, heavy burden bearing.
But, your Guide, unlike earthly
king, cries. Afraid somehow, bleeding—

I am not here Peter. Please provide
my own with bread always. Imagine:
you feed sheep abroad, nourish
them while broken.

I am the King whose church
is the true light.
And your gifts,
dear Peter, matter.