Men jeered and howled. But I knelt and shouted as the wind spat on all of us.
Ah, sorrowing women, yellow rocks, death, a man in his crypt, cold stone, a hawk screaming...
I called again and again.
“Lazarus, this is Jesus. Arise! Come with us! Remember us, remember I am the resurrection and the life. Come unto me...believe...God is here...”
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.