on the last day

I stand with Peter this last day
an angel to the north, her wings unfurled
an angel to the south, his trumpet sounds
an angel to the east, his robes on fire
an angel to the west, her tears thundering down

the bitter winds hold back every prophecy
of the twelve tribes of Israel, twelve thousand each,
I see them.

I hear them.
"Save the earth!" they sing
"Save the sea!"

Each beast,
each bird,
each breeze, "Save the Earth!"
Each forehead crossed, they sing,
"Save the earth! Save the sea!"

With sneer and jeer old Peter stands in sight of God's great throne,
"Alleluia. Alleluia. Christ has died.
Hosanna in the highest,"
he sings with angels
not a song of joy but a cry for war.

I swear my mute testimony
to the unworthiness of man, each line recorded on my heart
and saved for eternity.

With a long cold sigh that becomes the arctic gale
I stand with Peter on this last day
before an icy granite altar
before the blood stained lion-king
who was the sacrificial lamb

"Alleluia. Alleluia. Christ is Risen.
Hosanna in the highest,"
he roars with angels
a dirge for the unwashed, unholy, unsaved masses.

I grab the bucket now, prostrate before my lord,
"My Lord, My Lord, My Holy God,"
I squeeze out the vinegar from the sponge
I drench it in the cool waters.
With Peter, I wash the blood from the wounds in his feet.
I wash the blood from the wounds in his hands.
I wash the blood from his side.
I wash the blood from his face.

"Alleluia. Alleluia. Christ has come again.
Hosanna in the highest,"
I sing with angels
to celebrate as my flesh is seared away.