Women in white raiment

by John Lemley

Nought seemed to pause or stay.”

Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast, they have no more work to do; close the weary eyes, they have no more tears to shed; part the damp tresses, they have no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear to love’s kind and gentle voice. No anxious care gathers on the marble brow as you gaze. No throb of pleasure pulsates from the dear, loving bosom, nor mantling flush mounts the blue-veined temple. Can this be death? Oh, if beyond death’s swelling flood there was no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise! Alas for love if this were all, and naught beyond the parting at earth’s portals.

The remains of Tabitha were carefully laid in a retired upper chamber. And now there was hurry and bustle in preparation for the final rites. Friends were sent for, neighbors were present, the funeral arrangements were discussed, the mourning procured, the hospitalities of the house provided for. All was excitement—the loss was not then perceived in all its greatness. But after the preparations were all made, after the bustle had subsided, and the watchers had come for the night, then it was that the friends of Tabitha began to realize what had befallen them. Now the house seemed so still and sepulchral, though in the heart of the city, and though its threshold was still trodden by friendly feet, it seemed so empty. The apartments—how deserted! especially the room where she struggled and surrendered in the last conflict. There are the clothes, the garments and unfinished coat, there was the vacant chair and idle work-basket. During her sickness they had not so much noticed these things, for they were ever hopeful that these things might be used or occupied again. But now it can not be, and they perceive the dreadful vacancy everywhere.

Oh, how dark and cheerless the shadows came down over that home! No moon or stars have ever shown so dimly—no darkness ever seemed so utterly dark. The ticking of the clock resounds like bell-strokes all over the house. Such deep silence! No footsteps now on the stairs, or in the sick-chamber; no nurse to come and say, “she is not so well,” and come and ask for you. No, indeed, only the silent watchers move about with muffled step, and “you may sleep on now and take your rest,” if you can. Ah, poor bereaved hearts! It will be long ere the sweet rest you once knew will visit your couch. Slumber will bring again the scenes through which you have just passed, and you will start from it but to find them all too real. God pity the mourners after the body of the loved one lies unburied “in an upper chamber.”

All the members of the Christian congregation of Joppa appear to have been deeply moved by the loss which they had sustained, and to have entertained the wish in their hearts, although they did not venture to express it, that, if it were possible, Tabitha might be recalled to life, and yet, in sending for Peter, who at this time was at Lydda, ten miles away, they scarcely expected a miracle, and only desired that he would address words of consolation to them. Much is already gained, when they who abide in the house of mourning sincerely desire the consolations of God’s word spoken through human lips. It was only after her death that it became known what a treasure she had been to the church. It is one of the beautiful charms of the Christian life, that in nearly every congregation there is a Tabitha to be found who constitutes, as it were, the central point around which the love that exists in the society, collects. Every love is guided by her hand, and even when she utters no words, she successfully admonishes others.

Such a woman could not well be spared out of the Joppa church, and so, with the sunrising, the little congregation despatched two men, who hastened over the plain of Sharon to Lydda, with a message to Peter, saying, “Delay not to come to us!” There was haste in the matter. The body of Tabitha, in accordance with Oriental usage, could not be long held “in the upper chamber.” Peter seemed to have recognized this, for he at once “arose and went with them.”

As soon as the Apostle, who had made no delay, had arrived at Joppa, the elders of the congregation conducted him to the late home, and to the upper chamber in which the corpse lay. As Peter entered he saw the widows, on whom the deceased had conferred such benefits, standing around the bier of Tabitha, weeping, and “shewing the coats and garments which Dorcas made, while she was with them.” These acts of benevolence which survived their author, were indeed noble testimonials of the deceased woman’s love and charity.

After these weeping widows had told out their sorrow and their gratitude, Peter directed them all to withdraw. Doubtless he made this request that he could more fully engage in prayer when alone. He may also have perceived that some were governed by an idle curiosity. At all events, he did not yet know whether it was the Lord’s will to restore the deceased woman to life. Hence he desired to be alone with the Lord, in order to make known to Him the requests of the disciples.

After having poured out his soul in fervent prayer on his knees, Peter turned toward the body and called to Tabitha, saying, “Arise.” Luke gives us a graphic description of the scene: at first she opened her eyes, then, on seeing Peter, rose and sat up, and, at length, when Peter had given her his hand, stood up.

The Lord having restored Tabitha to life through the prayers of Peter, the Apostle called to the saints and widows, and presented to them the woman, who had been raised up by the power of God.