Before the Rooster Crowed

That night, the stars forgot to shine.
Jerusalem slept, but one heart trembled.
A fire crackled in the courtyard—its warmth mocked the cold fear inside him.
Peter, once bold as thunder, now a whisper in the wind.

He had walked on water.
He had called Him Messiah.
He had sworn to die with Him.
But now—now his voice betrayed love.
“I do not know Him,” he said.
Once.
Twice.
A third time—then the sound.
A rooster.
A cry from the wings of dawn.

And in that moment, heaven held its breath.
Jesus turned—not with anger, not with judgment,
But with eyes that remembered everything:
The call by the sea.
The laughter.
The faith.
The faltering.

It was not the rooster that broke Peter—it was the gaze.
A gaze like morning after storm,
That held no sword, only sorrow,
No fire, only forgiveness.

And Peter wept.

Oh, how he wept.
His tears were not of shame alone,
But of a heart that shattered in love.
He wept for the God he denied.
He wept for the Friend he failed.
He wept for the self he thought he was—and the soul he still could be.

And in that brokenness began his becoming.
Not in perfection, but in repentance.
Not in strength, but in surrender.

This is the mystery of love:
That even after denial, there is a dawn.
Even after the rooster crows, grace still sings.
That the God we deny is the God who dies—for us.
And rises, not to accuse, but to restore.

So when you fall, remember Peter.
Remember that the sound of your failure
Can become the music of your return.
That the tears you cry at dawn
Can water the garden of your soul.

For the Christ who turned to Peter
Turns still to you.
And in His eyes—
There is no condemnation.
Only the echo of a love
That never forgets,
Even when we do.

And in the silence after the crow,
There is still hope.
There is always hope.