Out in the Cold

What are you staring like that for?
Why are you looking at me?
What's that? You think I belong with him —
that "Jesus of Galilee"?
Not me. I'm an orphan of the storm.
I don't know the fellow at all.
I was cold, I was passing, I saw your fire,
and I just popped in to get warm.


I know all about the prisoner, of course —
you could hardly be here and not.
I suppose it's his doings these last few days
that have landed him in this spot.
If he'd only ... well ... played it more quietly —
not rubbed up the priests the wrong way —
all that hope, all that joy and excitement,
wouldn't now have been turned to dismay.


Not that it bothers me personally.
It's nothing to me what takes place.
But I have a friend who thought Jesus was king
and who claimed to see God in his face.
And I don't know quite how this friend of mine
will be able to handle tonight —
the arrest in Gethsemane Gardens
and Jesus' refusal to fight.


Why didn't he summon his angels,
if he's who he claimed to be?
Why didn't he bring his kingdom in?
(My friend will be asking me.)
And I won't have any answers;
I won't know how to reply.
I won't want to say, "Perhaps you were wrong.
Perhaps you believed a lie."


I can tell you now what my friend would say
if I were to take that line.
He'd remind me of each mighty deed
each wonder, and each sign —
the deaf ears opened with a touch,
the blind eyes made to see,
the lame limbs made to leap with joy,
and demons made to flee.


He'd remind me of the dead raised up,
of ruined lives made new;
of hearts transformed by just a word ...
And tell me: "He was true.
No other loved as Jesus loved,
no other gave like he.
No other so denied himself,
no other was so ... free."


What's that you say? "I have no friend.
I'm speaking at first hand.
That I'm the one they call ‘The Rock,'
the leader of his band."
You must be mad to think such things!
How could it ever be
that one so bright and clean and true
would pick the likes of me!


No ... I'm not Peter Johnson
(I think that was his name);
Peter was tough and bold and brave,
the bearer of the flame.
I met him once and — so it seemed —
on him you could depend.
He'd stick with you through thick and thin —
be with you to the end.


The sort of man that you would need
were you the Nazarene;
someone to keep the crowds in line,
someone to lead the team.
Someone to be a backbone
for that crazy band of men
who followed the Master everywhere ...
Except this lion's den.


That's why, I suppose, Jesus chose him.
That's why he called him "the Rock."
Because, he thought, when the crunch had come
and he was in the dock,
Peter would rally the others
and provide a place to stand.
Peter would steady their failing nerves
and unite the frightened band.


But me? I'm not like that you see —
a coward, through and through!
As soon as danger looms, I run;
it's shameful but it's true.
Scared witless! That's the way I'd be
if Peter were my name.
I wouldn't dare to own my Lord.
I couldn't stand the pain.


What is my name? It's ... Simon.
No ... I'm just up for the Feast.
Capernaum's where I've come from —
in Galilee, toward the east.
Yes, it is the place where Jesus
began to heal and to teach.
Yes, it is where I met Peter
one morning on the beach.


It was there I learned of the kingdom
that Jesus was ushering in:
a kingdom of peace, a kingdom of joy,
a kingdom devoid of sin.
A kingdom where love was the only law.
A kingdom where, born anew,
one could start again as a child of God
and be holy and good and true.


And it all seemed so real at the time to me,
by the lake, in the sun, on the shore.
I was carried away by the Master's dream
and I clasped it more and more.
And I've carried it with me in my heart
until this very night;
but now the dream is fading
in the sadness of that sight.


What's that? I called him "Master"? —
a slip of the tongue, nothing more.
I've told you; I never knew him —
just a stranger on the shore.
And now I'd better be going
for it's not me in the dock.
Yes, I know — it's almost morning,
I've just heard the crow of a ...