# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 24

CHAPTER XXIV.
WHEN Lazarus ceased speaking, morning, striking right and left with her flaming wand of truth, lighting up each secret corner of the world, burst in through the open casement, and forced herself in ardent streams of light beneath the doors and through every crevice of the house in Bethany.
She lit up faces weary with their vigil, worn with the excitement of this wondrous narrative and their eagerness to grasp the full purpose of this revelation.
When the Magdalene had finished writing, she fell upon her knees in prayer. None knew what she prayed for, whether in appeal, or thankfulness, but Lazarus looking at her, his gaze softened and a great resolve showed in his eyes.
Then, one by one, they rose from their posture on the ground, to go and bathe and set about the duties of the day. But Martha was less restless and solicitous.
Lazarus's tale had roused her interest; nay, more, had filled her with a vague dread and wondering that one so great as Jesus could condescend to sup with them that night; and, in a moment, as one sees things in a flash, it came to her how futile must every effort be to make things worthy of such a guest. Then, while her sister marvelled at her quiet ​spirit, she turned to the Magdalene and said: "Thou wilt go with us, Mary, to serve the Lord at supper."
And the despised Magdalene flushed with pleasure, for Martha's courtesies had the attribute of rarity.
But, although the disciples had striven to preserve the secret of Jesus' return to Bethany, yet, either through servants or by the treachery of Judas, it had been noised about that, not only the Nazarene, but also the risen Lazarus was to be at the feast; and all that day the people thronged outside the door of the leper, fearing to enter on account of the strict Jewish law, yet anxious to see him when he should leave his house. Great trouble filled the heart of the four at Bethany, for, in the midst of their joy at the prospect of seeing the Lord again, there rose the dread of what might follow. Fear for Lazarus was added now to their grief and terror for the Messiah, for he had become to the people the testimony of the Christ's actuality and power.
Beneath the double sway of the high priests and the Romans, the Jewish people were beginning to think more for themselves and to act with greater independence. They would inquire into this matter and learn for themselves the truth.
So it came about that, when Lazarus and the three women, followed by the servants bearing the dishes they had made ready for the Lord, sallied forth from the gates, they found a crowd assembled who, with that daring which even now characterises an Eastern throng, followed them along the road, calling out to them, asking questions, gabbling, quarrelling, gesticulating.
​"Art thou indeed Lazarus?" cried they. "Wert really dead?"
And with these and like inquiries were mingled ribaldry and jeers; for when the common people congregate, there are always those who think to show their humour with obscene and scoffing oaths.
"Wast so fond of earth thou couldst not stay away?"
Then, when the crowd continued to vociferate and clamour, Lazarus quickly mounted a little hillock on the roadside, and, facing them, cried out in the deep voice that had been wont to stir men in the Sanhedrim: "Men of Israel, hear ye me; if I tell ye the truth will ye believe me?"
Cries rose from the multitude: "We will believe, we will believe."
"Nay, I ask yet more; will ye believe that Jesus is the Christ? for I am here to-day to testify of Him."
Cries rose again: "Art thou indeed Lazarus?"
"How can I convince ye?" answered Lazarus in tones despondent at his inability to prove his personality, if his simple presence should not suffice.
"Ye have known me from my childhood upwards. Many are here to-day with whom I went to school. Behold yonder the sons of Zebedee; they will bear witness that I am the same Lazarus. Simon the Leper, to whom I now go, is my father, and these two noble ladies are my sisters. Thou knowest them well, for they have tended many of the sick and poor in Bethany. What more can I tell ye to make ye believe that I am the Lazarus ye have known? Behold my hands and the features of my ​countenance. If I be not that same Lazarus, where then is he?"
Then one, a lawyer, came up to him.
"Noble ruler," he began, "I will speak for this multitude. We believe verily that thou art Lazarus, but we would hear whether thou wert really dead, and if so be, how thou didst return to life?"
"How can I persuade ye, my brethren?" replied Lazarus, tears rising to his eyes in the intensity of his emotion. "I was indeed dead. Ask the physician Kishish; ask them who embalmed me, and them who bore me to the tomb. In truth, I was dead, and if I be alive again, 't is by the power of Jesus the Christ, whom ye call the Nazarene."
Some seemed willing to believe, others shrugged their shoulders, but none molested Lazarus or those with him any more. But some amongst the crowd cried out: "He is bewitched, or he dreameth, and knoweth not what he saith. Maybe he was in a trance."
Their supper in the house of Simon was a happy meeting. Though all were troubled by forebodings of sad events to come, there was in each a spirit of patience and resignation that enabled them to enjoy the present.
Although supper had been laid for all the family of Simon, only one couch had been provided, all having intended to wait on Jesus; but, with gracious condescension, as though what Lazarus had gone through gave him a higher claim to His friendship, Jesus bade him be seated at the same table. With what zeal and tenderness those loving women waited on the two they loved best in the world, though ​each with a widely different love; but now even their love for Lazarus was tinged with the divine reverence they had for the Nazarene.
Presently, with a burst of that living tenderness which vainly strove to give full expression to itself, the Magdalene took a vessel of ointment of spikenard of the most costly kind, that she had brought with her, and poured it over the Messiah's feet. To the careful Jew, such an offering was one for great occasions only, but to Mary it seemed but a poor expression of her devotion. As the rich fragrance was wafted on the air, filling the chamber with vague memories of hedgerows and Grecian gardens of roses, the Nazarene's eyes fell with love and gratitude on the kneeling figure at His feet. He saw, beyond the impulsive gift, the warmth of love and reverence that had dictated it. The best of everything must be her Lord's. Yet more, He saw a thought distinct. It might be that the loving Mary feared that she would not be near Him when He died, to fulfil the last earthly office, the embalming of His body. It might be that cruel soldiers would tear away the body of one she loved so much. Therefore, to-night, He should be anointed with the rarest perfumes of Judæa. With these thoughts in her mind, her tears fell in drops like rain on the holy feet; and, as they fell, she wiped them with her hair, lest they should defile the members she so reverently handled.
At the feet of the Lord; that had been ever the favourite posture of the Magdalene! Would she ever again be privileged to take it? While the disciples whispered among themselves and listened to the Nazarene, her thoughts flew back with the agony ​of remorse—the remembrance of happy intervals in the midst of pains, than which the poet tells us there is no greater grief—to those peaceful days before Lazarus had died. Oh that it could have remained thus! But the merciless generation was pressing them on to unsought destinies. They were like people forced into pathways they wished not to pursue, with separation, persecution, insult, death before them; and to support them through all these, having only that staff of faith, and a vague hope, whose brightness would be dimmed when the One who had implanted it should have vanished from their sight.
Then Judas Iscariot, who was a half-brother of Lazarus, and had always hated his father's children and been jealous of the Lord's intimacy with them, glad of an opportunity of wounding them or of holding them up to blame in the eyes of Jesus, exclaimed: "What waste is here! Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence and given to the poor?"
Before the Lord could answer, Martha cried hotly, mindful of what Lazarus had disclosed to them: "Thou traitor, much thou carest for the poor. Wouldst put it in the bag with thy thirty pieces of silver?"
Iscariot's face blanched to the grey whiteness of an iceberg from which the sun had fled.
Was then his secret known? His eyes sought those of Jesus shiftingly; while Lazarus raised his hand in disapproval of Martha's hasty speech. But the Messiah's gentle voice made answer pleadingly: "Let her alone; against the day of My burying hath ​she kept this. For the poor ye have always with you; but Me ye have not always."
And when He had so spoken, Mary could restrain her tears no longer, and cried out: "My Lord, my Lord, I beseech Thee, leave us not."
Then, leaning towards her in infinite pity for the great sorrow in her heart, the Saviour murmured: "Let not your heart be troubled."
And while He spoke, there were heard outside sounds of voices shouting, "Hosanna! Hosanna!"
A few moments later, the whole house was crowded with a glorifying multitude, who would not be restrained from seeing the great sight of the Son of God on earth, sitting in the house of Simon the Leper, and, by His side, Lazarus, who had been raised from the dead.
And, in the midst of the clamour and confusion, Judas Iscariot made his way out to warn the Pharisees that his secret was known, and that they must needs make haste if they would lay hands on the Nazarene.
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