It was late afternoon: the sun was behind the yellow cliff.
Martha clutched my arm and said:
“Lord, let us leave. Lazarus has been dead four days. He stinks.”
A funeral procession passed by—men and women—the men carrying a child’s coffin.
“God, our Father, help us. Give this man life again!” I beseeched with passion. I knew, as I prayed, that Lazarus would respond.
Swaying, wrapped in burial clothes, Lazarus appeared, a scarf across his face. He could not see or move his hands. I went to him and Martha uncovered his eyes. Mary ran to help. We unwrapped his legs and arms.
“Jesus has given you life,” Martha said. “You are going home with us...you are one of us again.”
Stumbling over rocks, Mary guiding him, Lazarus found a place to sit down. We unbound him and someone gave him a robe. Someone offered him a piece of bread. He shook his head, stared at us, turned from one to the other, his face birdlike, hawklike, white. He peered at his crypt. Martha hugged him, laughing. People gathered. Some knelt around us.
“Mary, what happened?” Lazarus began, speaking his first words.
“Why am I here in this place? Why am I wearing a robe? And these people... and Jesus! Was I sick? Where are my clothes?”