# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X.
The Temple had been all day the scene of thronging crowds. The people in and round about Jerusalem had gathered there to hear the Nazarene preach; some from curiosity and some to scoff, but the greater part to listen to those wondrous words, which, while upsetting all past teaching, brought peace and comfort to the heart, and visions of unending happiness in the future. How simple was that teaching! No burnt-offerings, no more sacrifices, only water to the thirsty and food to the hungry; forgiveness and salvation offered to all who would accept it. The tone of the Nazarene that day had been almost broken-hearted; His appeals to the hearts of men more pathetic and more powerful than usual in their pleading earnestness. Who on earth can ever fathom the grief of the Man of Sorrows at the hardness of heart of people who daily saw His miracles and heard His words, yet would not believe?
"Why do ye not understand My speech? Because I tell ye the truth, ye believe Me not."
Incensed, the crowd had hurled invectives and abuse against the meek testifier of the truth.
"Now we know that Thou hast a devil," cried some.
"Who art Thou?" cried others.
​"Where is Thy Father?" cried others derisively.
And, in meek solemnity, with eyes that turned to Heaven in mute appeal for forgiveness for those around Him, the voice, that had so often kept the Jewish crowd in check, replied: "Ye neither know Me nor My Father; if ye had known Me, ye would have known My Father also."
Goaded on by the Pharisees, the crowd had yelled and roared and taunted, till, at last, grown furious at the continued meekness of the Preacher, they had even taken up stones and cast them at Him. A terrible cry arose when the Nazarene's fair flesh was struck again and again by the stones hurled at Him. It was the voice of a woman who stood in the crowd:
"My son, my Lord, they have hurt Him. Oh, are they mad that they know Him not? Oh, foolish generation, who hath bewitched you?"
But, even while she had cried, the tender eyes of the Nazarene had fallen upon the mother whom He loved. Perhaps to spare her pain or to prevent further sin, or because His hour was not yet come, He had ceased speaking, and walked without shrinking towards the crowd. Terrified by His temerity, perhaps, or cowed by some invisible power that held them spell-bound, the crowd had stopped molesting Him and had fallen back to let Him pass; and, turning to each other, had murmured, in strange contrast to their late behaviour, "This is the Christ," while others had said, "Or, of a truth, the Prophet."
And so Jesus had passed out of the Temple in safety. But now evening had come, and with it the faint chilliness that in Southern climates takes the place of frost at the approach of the cold season. ​The cloudless sky had turned from deepest blue to palest green, and the dying sun had, as it were, spilt its blood across the west, leaving a gold-red haze behind the waving palm trees that stood against the skies in dark defined relief, showing the pattern of each leaf. Here and there a star opened a twinkling eye and glimmered faintly, and the roads that looked so white in the midday sun grew greyer every moment. Olive and cypress trees, leafless vineyards, houses and walls and hills were every moment shrouded more and more in the mantle of darkness that was falling silently over the earth. Every now and then a bat, whirring out from a neighbouring tree, or a pariah dog howling outside the walls, was the only sound that broke the stillness. Along the road to Bethany a woman was hastening with cloak tightly drawn around her. At that very moment Martha was also speeding her way from Bethany to Bethsaida to beseech the Lord.
It was Mary Magdalene, who was hastening to Bethany to join her tears to those of the other Mary. No darkness frightened her, no journey seemed too long for her to hasten where she knew her Lord would be.
While she hurried along the road her thoughts turned to Jesus, as they were now ever wont to turn; the loving, penitent heart, broken with disillusions, sickened with the nausea of unholiness, emptied of all earthly love, but restored and comforted by the divine, had room for naught else now but the Nazarene. Every now and then a strange misgiving overcame her. How was it that Jesus had allowed Lazarus, whom He so loved, to die? Was it ​that He had been captured and imprisoned; or, worse, put to death? For all those who really believed in Him were imbued with the foreboding of His approaching death. The Nazarene Himself had prepared them for it, and, as each day dawned, each one of His true followers in turn rejoiced that He was still with them, but dreaded what might befall before the night.
"I go My way and ye shall seek Me; whither I go, ye cannot come."
Poor Magdalene! How she trembled, thinking of the moment when He who had brought salvation and forgiveness to her poor worn-out soul would depart, leaving her desolate in the world, that world which had been cruel alike in its adulation and its judgment! Would she have the strength, despised and scoffed at by women, persecuted on account of her great beauty by the worst type of men, would she be able to weather the storm alone? Poor, weak, loving creature, would she have the strength? She had no more faith in herself, no courage left; only a growing remorse that had kindled into a devouring flame, and then been quenched by the love of the Saviour, who had brought words of consolation to the sinner:
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more."
How well He had understood, this pure and spotless Jesus, the terrible lurings of sin, the horrible temptations of a loving, clinging soul; and how poor, erring sinners were goaded to further sin by the harshness of the world's judgment; plunged into still lower depths by the powerful and the ​hypocrites, who pointed the finger of scorn at others in the hope of blinding their fellows to their own far greater sins.
Yes, it had been new life, a new, strange comfort, this theory of faith, repentance, and forgiveness; this wiping out of the past her soul had longed for. She—who had seen the worst of human nature, who had learned to look with loathing upon man and all his selfishness; tortured with remorse; trembling over loss of self-respect; weeping at her forfeited good fame; longing for relief, like the thirsty flower for the refreshing rain, and dying bird for the rays of the glowing sun—had fallen down in worship at the feet of the perfect Man, who brought salvation to trusting women instead of ruin; who crowned all manhood by His pure humanity, and conferred undying honour on all womanhood by the manner of His birth.
But she had grown humble and diffident, this poor, worn woman.
Away from Jesus, she dreaded life. If her Lord should die, she prayed that she might also die. Then, in the grey twilight of that Eastern night, thoughts stirred her deeply, as oft they do when we are alone, and, most of all, alone with nature, and the words of the Nazarene came back to her, when He had likened Himself to a good shepherd, and all that that implied.
Oh, how wonderful it was, this change in her! How her heart glowed with gratitude and love! Then midway in her journey and in the silent darkness, the Magdalene fell down on the soft grass by the roadside in deep humility, and bowed her head ​and prayed to God to grant her once more to see the face of Jesus and to keep her from again falling into sin.
So absorbed was she in her prayer, that she failed, at first, to hear footsteps coming along the road. For a moment she was overcome with womanly fear at being alone on the highroad at such an hour. She, least of all, should thus be seen; for, since her awakening, she had remained almost nightly within doors, or in the company of the mother of her Lord, who had been all sympathy and love to her. Of late her only pleasure in life had been in following the crowds to hear the preaching of the Nazarene, either in the Temple courts or in the open air.
The night was dark, so rising quickly from her knees she slid behind an olive tree. The two men approached, talking in tones that in the night air sounded loud and clear.
The Magdalene started. She knew one voice well; she had heard it many times speaking to crowds, and also in the Temple cursing and denouncing sinners like herself. Surely it was the voice of Caiaphas. Those harsh, dictatorial accents, full of self-assurance, could belong to no other man. What brought Caiaphas along this road so late? A sharp pain struck her heart, as though she had been stabbed. If it were Caiaphas hastening to the house of Martha, it must surely be to lay hands on Jesus. Perchance He was already taken. Oh that she were there to throw herself between the captor and the captured, to tear the former limb from limb! Surely God would give her strength to save His glorified Son. Then she whispered softly to herself, "But ​He would not let me. If His hour had come He would bid me be silent and watch for the workings of the Lord."
Then there came a great longing over her to hurry on and warn them of their danger, for where Caiaphas went there mischief must for sure be brewing. She knew a short cut through the olive groves, if only it was not too dark. But who was the other man? She strained her ears to listen. They were close to her now. They halted and seemed engaged on some hot argument, for they paused to catch their breath. Truly to marvels there was no end. The man with Caiaphas was Nicodemus. For one instant there floated through her mind the thought that Nicodemus had persuaded Caiaphas to go and witness the expected miracle, the bringing back of Lazarus to life. For one moment her heart beat with joy. Oh, if Caiaphas also should believe!
The kingdom of God would be established, and Jesus would reign for ever. Then her sudden joy expired; it was not to be; she knew it well from Jesus' lips that He must die. Then mischief must be abroad; either Nicodemus was a traitor, or Caiaphas had laid a plot. They were on their way to Martha's house, but with no good intent, and her heart ached for the poor women left alone at such a moment. She must hasten to warn them; but how? The only road by which she could reach Bethany sooner than Caiaphas and Nicodemus was one beset with dangers; through dark olive groves, that often at night were infested with evil-doers. To the forgiven Magdalene, the newly awakened, purified Magdalene, fear came in a new form. Her former ​ill-fame created terrors for her she had never felt before; but, full of new-bidden strength and faith, she raised her heart in prayer, and drawing her veil around her face, she started at a running pace across the soft herbage of the by-path.
"Mary, Mary Magdalene, whither goest thou?" a soft voice called after her. She half paused to listen; then, with redoubled energy, began to run again. Then she became conscious of a presence near her; she durst not turn her head, but her heart breathed a prayer for help.
A sudden light brought her movements to a full stop; a flashing light that diffused a strange, inexplicable glow, illumining the grey-green olive trees and enveloping the path and bushes with a curious, iridescent halo, that, while giving light, showed neither flame nor fire. It was like a fairy web of gold hanging on tree and bush.
A great terror seized upon the Magdalene. It was not physical fear, but the dread of being brought face to face with the supernatural. While she gazed, with dilated eyes and parted lips, the glory seemed blurred by a shadow. It was as though the centre of the glowing light were forming itself into a little cloud. Her heart beat so violently that in its throbbing it seemed to make to vibrate every nerve and fibre of her body. With one hand she held tightly across her bosom the blue veil which was worn by all the women of Jerusalem in that day. With the other she smoothed back her lovely golden tresses, straining her eyes to bursting to pierce the glory that hung from tree to tree. Then, with a sudden thought, she fell on her knees, and bowing ​her head to the ground, in words of deepest humility and a voice weak with agony, she murmured: "Oh, my Lord, my Lord, they have slain Thee! Jesus, Thou Saviour, in pity Thou hast visited me!" and faint with gratitude and adoration, and torn with anguish, she almost swooned away.
Then a voice she knew, but which was not that of the Christ (whose voice was like to none on earth), called out again: "Mary, Mary Magdalene, bow not thyself before me, for I am the least of all men. Rise up and listen. I am not the Christ, but Lazarus.
Kneeling still, and struggling with emotion, the Magdalene raised her beautiful face, half dazed still from the agony she had undergone; and some of the glory that shone around her touched her lips and hair; and, while she looked, the shadows seemed to grow more and more distinct; till, finally, the form and features of Lazarus seemed to stand in very life before her, but with a strange spiritual light upon them, such as she had seen occasionally on the face of the Nazarene.
"Thou, Lazarus?" she murmured inquiringly in awe-struck tones. "Thou here? But I saw thee die, and, even now, I was hastening to Mary to warn her that Caiaphas and Nicodemus are on their way to Bethany; and they will have gained upon me on the highroad."
"Fear not," replied Lazarus. "I have come to tell thee that our Lord is not yet come to Bethany, nor will He be for three days more. Thou hast naught to fear, even if Caiaphas and Nicodemus go to Martha's house. They will find only Mary, for Martha ​hath gone to entreat the Lord, and He cometh not yet to restore to me my life."
"And art thou, in truth, dead, Lazarus? How then speakest thou to me?" asked Mary Magdalene.
"Whosoever believeth on the Christ shall never die," Lazarus replied solemnly.
"Yet thou art dead, Lazarus, thy grave clothes are yet about thee; thou sayest that thy body lieth in the grave. Tell me, then, what is it to die?"
"To die, Magdalene, is but to begin to live; to begin to understand, to begin to know how great God is, how small we are."
"Truly this is strange, that thou shouldst be dead but speaking still to me," replied the Magdalene.
"They that sleep in the Lord are ever near those they love," said Lazarus. "If thou couldst but see with purified eyes, as I now do, thou wouldst perceive that the world is peopled with the spirits of those who have died, as they of this world call it, but who, in verity, have but begun to live. They are about me while I speak to thee."
Mary paused, as if to give herself courage to reply.
"Dost thou know all things?" presently she asked. "Dost thou know wherefore was the world created and why death came into it, why it was permitted by our Lord Jesus that thou shouldst die, if in truth God be His Father and He hath power to save?"
"Be silent, woman," replied Lazarus severely.
"None of these things do I know yet. All that has come to me in death is the certainty that all this is for right; but I understand it not. I know only ​that to understand it fully is impossible. I would fain explain away what to me becometh daily more inexplicable, yet more certain. Oh, Magdalene, if thou couldst but travel in the spirit world, as I am doing, thou couldst not but believe. I have seen Jesus, and He hath charged me to bid thee tell His mother that three days hence she come to the house of Martha to see Him raise my body from the grave, where it now lieth; for the glory of the living God will this thing be done."
But, argumentative still, as women are, longing to convince herself by further questioning of the reality of what she saw and heard, she murmured: "Hast thou, then, been to heaven?"
"Nay," he answered, "not to the heaven where God doth reign, for no man can see His glory till the Messiah be ascended; but it is heaven to me to know that eternity existeth, and that from such glories and wonders, as neither thou nor I can understand, Jesus hath come down to save mortals, such as we. Oh, if the world could but understand or, not understanding, be content to believe and pray!"
The first faint streaks of dawn were trembling in the sky, a blue, cold light began to play lightly on the olive branches, and already the golden haze of glory seemed to be melting almost imperceptibly. Lazarus's face was growing indistinct. The air seemed filled with the rustling of wings; a noise, as a flight of birds, sounded in Mary's ears, mingled with the music of strings of countless harps in unison; and then a chorus of voices burst forth in such a chant of exultant praise and harmony, as it had never yet been given to man or woman to hear.
​Entranced, and faint with wonder and emotion, the Magdalene watched the fading of the beloved form; then, as the voices grew more distant and the face more indistinct, a regret that pierced came over her, in that she had failed to ask for guidance how to gain eternal life.
"Lazarus, Lazarus, rabbi," she exclaimed, "tell me before thou goest how must I die that I may die in Christ?" But he made no answer. Then faintly, from the distance came the voices chanting: "Truth and love. Truth and love."
And, overcome with all she had gone through, full of penitence, remorse, and wonder and devotion, the Magdalene fell upon her face, caring nothing that her beautiful hair caught in the roots and branches and tanglewood beneath her; conscious only that Jesus loved her, and that for her sins His life was to be yielded up, that to wash away her stains, His blood, the blood of the Innocent, the Perfect One, must flow.
Layout 2