There at the story’s close
We could not stay awake.
The new wine made us doze.
And not for Jesus’ sake.
I struck the high-priest’s slave
Who came at start of day,
But as a hand might wave
Some bugling fly away.
That hand warm by the flame,
I murmured no, no, no
To mutters of his name
And felt the rooster’s crow
Flail me, yet did not waken
Out of that rocky sleep.
Dungeoned I stood there, shaken
Only enough to weep,
Only enough to fill,
At those predicted jeers,
Through the dropped lashes’ grille
The socket’s moan of tears.
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