# Lazarus, a tale of the world's great miracle/Chapter 30

CHAPTER XXX.
BUT, when Lazarus joined the little band of disciples, the image of Rebekah, yes, even of the Magdalene, forsook his mind. The Lord, the Master, reigned supreme. Everything to-night must be pressed into His service. These last hours were His, and His alone. Knowing the character of the disciples, how, notwistanding their protestations, they were yet ignorant men, whose only strength lay in the fact of their having obeyed the Christ in the spirit of a little child; conscious of the impetuous, changeable, easily panic-stricken character of the dwellers in the East, Lazarus felt that it behoved him specially to follow Jesus. It might be that that night He would be betrayed. All His words tended to make them think so. It might be that all would be cut down with Him. If so, what greater proof of love could he give the Christ than to die with Him? It might be, though Lazarus would not harbour the thought, that they would flee: some of them, Peter and Thomas, were too impulsive to be relied upon; John and James a shade too presumptuous. He must follow now. "Leave all that thou hast and follow Me," had been the command; he would indeed follow. All he possessed, each rare garment and costly jewel, had been laid aside, and Lazarus even now was clad in the simple white ​garments worn by the poorer classes. All he possessed? His dearest possession was the heart of the Magdalene. That, too, must be resigned, his love, his sacrifice must be complete; and so, sorrowfully and with head bent, he followed the little band.
The night was heavy with the air of tragedy, the earth alive with anticipation. Their hearts were sick with untold dread as they passed out of the city gates, that in the bright moonlight stood sheer and white, and down the steep ravine of the Kedron, a river here, a brook only where it ran through the Garden of Gethsemane. All was bathed in moonlight, the river, the soft grass, the olive trees. Everywhere were soft, silvery radiance and dark shadow, emblems of the glory and the cross. At every step, in subdued accents lest they should be heard by watching traitors or solitary passers-by, Jesus comforted their souls. 'Verily, verily I say unto you, that ye shall weep and lament, but the world shall rejoice: and ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. And ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you. I go away and come again unto you. If ye love Me ye would rejoice, because I said I go unto My Father." Then, as they wept, He turned and said: "Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
Each word He spoke weighed heavily on Lazarus's soul. The very beauty and unselfishness of the Christ enhanced the horror of not being able to save Him pain—Him, so thoughtful for others, even in ​this terrible moment. No, it was not life that Lazarus desired for Him; no one having once cast off the flesh could ever wish that again for any whom he loved. It was not, therefore, the Messiah's life that he would save; but he would save Him, if he could, from the insults, the smarting taunts, that lay before Him. Lazarus knew them, these vulgar self-sufficient Orientals, who fawned on those in power, and crushed into the mud those who failed or seemed to fail. Every item of the Jewish character was familiar to him, its extraordinary enthusiasm, its worship of "the rising sun," its brutal, illimitable cruelty to the down-trodden, its contempt of the weak. No depth of horror, no abyss of shame, no stretch of coarse invective, no extremity of pain would be spared the Son of God if He should fall into the hands of Caiaphas. The triumph would drive the Pharisees mad. Already the multitudes were deserting Him. They held aloof for fear of future loss of position, should the Nazarene be condemned. For himself Lazarus thought nothing; how can one live and die and live again, and count life or death as aught?
The distant murmur of Jerusalem was fading into a faint hum of nightly stirrings. Only the leaves rustled. A great despondency seized their hearts, a horrible foretaste of loneliness at the departure of the Christ. How could they live alone, these men whose rising and down-sitting had been spent with Him! To go back into the cold, callous, Jewish life, to be taunted with the reproach of failure, and unable to refute it! To be asked for living truths, and have naught to give in reply but memories that ​would daily fade, until they should become a dream! What would remain of all this teaching? A tale of some miracles, the story of a shameful death, a few trusting hearts. What sign that salvation had come to the world? Christ would have spoken in vain. How could they hope to persuade the world when He had failed? The very miracles would be jeered at, either as lies, or, if they did occur, as the result of witchcraft. What would survive, or how could they make gift of the inward burnings of their hearts? As if the Christ had heard the searching of their hearts He paused on the greensward and spoke:
"I will pray to the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter, that He may abide with you forever; and He shall bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said. I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you."
And, while the disciples wondered amongst themselves, one said to another: "He meaneth Lazarus, He meaneth Lazarus."
But Lazarus denied it vehemently. "Who am I?" he asked. " 'T is the Spirit of Truth that will come, which the world cannot receive."
But the mournful journey was nearly at an end. At each step they would have halted gladly, to hold back the future, to live again but for a few short minutes those precious moments they were conscious now they had too little valued.
A God had come and was passing hence, and they had only now begun to know Him. How doubly treasured would be the memory of those days, now that their tale was almost ended!
​Then, with the thought that the grief He was to bring upon them added yet another sorrow to His own, the Nazarene stood still near the entrance to Gethsemane and, turning to them in the shadow of the trees, He said: "All ye shall be offended because of Me this night; for it is written, I will smite the Shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad."
"What meaneth this?" said one.
"He is our Shepherd, and when they take Him prisoner this night, maybe He thinketh we shall flee," said the desponding Thomas.
Then Peter rushed towards Him crying out: "Though all men shall be offended because of Thee, yet will I never be offended."
"Verily I say unto thee, that this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny Me thrice," was the sad reply. He believed in no promises, now the end had come.
But Peter cast himself at His feet. "Why sayest Thou this, Lord? Though I should die with Thee, yet will I not deny Thee."
And all the disciples, raising their hands to heaven, as if to call the moon, the whole creation nay, more, God the Father, to witness what they promised, cried: "We will die with Thee! We will die with Thee!"
"Be still," said Lazarus. "Raise not your voices, lest the enemy should hear you."
His warning, breathed on the stillness of the night, fell on their ears with startling force. The hour was indeed close at hand. Anxiously they peered between the olive trees, some even dividing the ​branches of the fig trees and the pomegranates lest a traitor should be lurking there. How awe-inspiring and mysterious were the surroundings, how pregnant with agony was each moment that came and went!
At the gate of Gethsemane Jesus paused for a moment and gave His last command.
"Bear witness because ye have been with Me from the beginning." Then, while they stood round weeping, He added, to leave a little glimmering of comfort in their souls' dark night: "After I am risen, I will go before you into Galilee."
So this was the end, the end of the familiar friendship, the inspiring presence, the miraculous words of teaching and of help. It seemed impossible that one so great could pass away so simply.
Then, when they tried to follow Him, He turned and said: "Sit ye here while I go and pray yonder.
But they made an impetuous movement to follow Him. Then Lazarus said: "We must needs watch, or, maybe, He will not even have time to pray."
Then, when Jesus saw the distress of the warm-hearted Peter and James and John, He bade them come with Him; and, with one human cry for sympathy, He said: "My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with Me."
Who can dare to dwell on that great agony and live. The agony of God brought low. The haunting fear of His humanity that at the last His strength might fail! Oh, ye who scoff at this one moment of weakness and in those two cries—"My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" and, "Father, ​if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me"—and would see in it the proof that He was not the Christ, have ye ever thought that in this cry was all the glory? Very man of very man, a man to hope, a man to fear, a man to pray, a man weighted with the sins, not of Himself, but of the world. To die, not like a warrior on the battle-field, but an ignominious death of abiding torture, a death so undeserved, that it might well wring out the piteous cry that seemed to pierce the heavens and penetrate the radiant hills beyond, and onward to the throne of God. A prayer that the power of sin might be suspended without this awful sacrifice; that the sword of Satan might be sheathed before it slew, before the last foul crime of His death should stamp the world with infamy for ever.
Then, as though His agony were such that prayer could no longer pass His lips, He sought His three disciples.
Asleep, asleep, His own familiar friends. The one, too, who had promised so much—asleep, dreaming contentedly, in calm unconsciousness of the anguished soul-throbs of the Christ who knelt in agony with head bowed to the ground, breathing entreaties in blood-washed murmurs to the sky. Who can even picture to himself such solitude—a man alone—a God deserted!
Yet, at His approach they sprang to their feet, confused still, knowing not whether it was their Lord who called, or that an enemy was near.
"Could ye not watch with Me one hour?" Strange fortitude this, with which to face the world hereafter! "Watch and pray, that ye enter not ​into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.
No word of His own agony. What matter who saw or saw not, if it behoved the Christ to die? But for them, how could they withstand with such short-lived ardour?
But His own heart was full of heaviness, and no comfort came. Was this perchance the answer? As they slept, oblivious, callous, so heaven seemed for one moment motionless, unanswering.
Alone, alone, in that great garden of solitude, treading the winepress alone, quaffing the fiery cup to the last scalding drop, the cup that none else would taste, yet that He must drain to the very dregs. No way out, no way out, but through that cross, if men were to be saved, and apparently how little they were worth the saving. The silence and the night only seemed to answer: "Thou must drink it and alone." And, bowing His sacred head once more, He prayed in meek obedience: "If this cup may not pass away from Me, except I drink it, Thy will be done."
And once more He came to see whether any watched with Him; and once more He found them fast asleep.
Still silence only for an answer.
"None will drink it for Thee, none will help. Thou must drink it and alone;" and once more He prayed: "Thy will be done." And as He bowed His head to the ground, His forehead struck a stone and drops of blood fell from His forehead.
Then He came to them again and gazed with pity on their sleeping faces.
​"Sleep on now, and take your rest: behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners."
The moment in which humanity had cried out for sympathy had passed, when human sympathy, human gratitude, might have solaced anguish, when united prayer might have brought consolation. The temptation was over; the temptation to escape by the power of His Godhead a degrading death. Their silence had been His answer. Henceforth there would be no hesitation, the flesh was conquered, now 't was His joy to die. The insults and jeers of high priests and publicans alike, the taunts and gibes of a whole nation would never again make manifest that bleeding of the soul. No pain, no thirst, no glaring noon-day sun, no prison chains, or smitings of dirty, sin-stained hands would bring one cry. Like a sheep before its shearers He would be dumb.
The new prayer would be, "Let not this cup pass from Me. Fill it to the brim, if so be Thy will, O God, that the salvation of this people be full and free and perfect, wide as the rivers, high as the mountains. The fulness of the sacrifice shall be perfect. Humanity is dead for ever in Me. I live now but to die."
There was no flinching in His next words, no fear, no echo of His awful agony. "He is at hand that doth betray Me."
For some time the disciples at the gate had watched with uneasiness a little line of uneven lights, that twinkled hither and thither on the road, along which they had come but two hours before. ​Yet surely so many would not come to seize so gentle a prisoner. Was it not rather, Lazarus hoped, the little company of believing Jews, who came to seek their Lord?
"Judas!" The name was more hissed than spoken by the little band.
Judas,—Judas leading a mixed band of soldiers, borrowed from the precincts of the Temple, of Jews and Sadducees, of servants and centurions! The clanking of swords, the steady tread of men disciplined to march in unison, lights, suppressed words of command, and the red glare of Roman lanterns paling in the blue radiance of the moon; all these approached. What, then, did Judas dread that he should bring so many demons with him? Surely a legion of devils? The moments now were precipitating themselves one upon another. The air seemed peopled with spiritual elements, that warred, yet remained unseen. A strange light, brighter than the moon, seemed to irradiate from the Messiah, and to make His figure the centre-piece of the glorious picture.
Then hurriedly, as though possessed with a demon of haste that spurred him on to his destruction, Judas bent forward and kissed on His pure brow the Friend, the Man, the God.
"Hail, Master!"
Forgetful of Himself, forgetful of those around Him, even then the gentle Saviour sought to breathe into this man, whom He had loved, some remorse that would bring about repentance.
"Friend," He said, raising His pure eyes in deepest grief and pity—"Friend, wherefore art thou ​come? Betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?"
It was as though He said: "Thou wast My friend, thou who comest for a crime, canst thou yet kiss Me? Of a truth such treachery is past conception. Ah, surely, 't is only the Son of man thou thinkest to deceive. Thou canst not hope thus to cheat thy God."
But the traitor's work was over, the work that seemed but the spawn of madness now. All that he had undertaken he had accomplished, and he fell back into the darkness; his brain reeled, and his heart seemed to swell within him as though bursting with the sudden revelation of that which he had done.
He had betrayed the Lord, betrayed his Christ, his Friend—for what? For thirty pieces of silver! But thirty thousand could not bring back for him eternal life! Eternal death, that was all that loomed before him. Oh, why, why had they urged him on to perpetrate this awful deed? Of a truth they had been keen in intuition who thus had singled out the vilest, weakest heart in all Judaea to do this thing. Lost, lost, lost, in this world and the next! Through greed and avarice, the leading instinct and the most cursed attribute of the Jews; that love of gain that swamps all noble thoughts, sucking as it were into a whirlpool of fetid water all that is great and good, stifling each exalted aspiration.
Meekly, with that noble gait with which none other could compare, with quiet dignity and with no trace of fear, Jesus stepped forward.
"Whom seek ye?" He asked of the commander ​of the soldiers, who stood with swords drawn, but turned downwards to the ground.
"Jesus of Nazareth," replied their chief. In truth, he knew not what to call this man whom each named differently, and who called Himself the Son of God.
Far away in their back ranks, the Nazarene could see the face of Judas peering through the gloom.
"I am He," He said, and, as the words of truth unadorned fell on the chilly stillness, a cry rose from the lips of Judas:
" 'T is He, 't is He!" But to the souls of those around him he seemed to say, " 'T is God, 't is God"; and, like one on whom some sudden, blinding light is flashed, the group fell back before the God-like majesty of that fearless presence.
Iscariot, poor fool, had warned them to come with staves and swords and spears and to use force against Him; but this Man made no attempt either to escape or to oppose them, though all knew full well that He had done nothing worthy of death.
Then, when the men fell back, one of the disciples cried out: "Let us flee; they are afraid."
But flight was impossible to the true, brave nature; the cup was being emptied, slowly and surely; the bitterest dregs were yet to come, but He would drain it.
Once more He approached the startled band, and His very presence seemed to strike their souls with terror. Again He asked: "Whom seek ye?"
And again they answered: "Jesus of Nazareth," and in their hushed voices was a tone that seemed to mean: "We sought a man, we find a God."
​Then, lest the fulness of their wrath should fall upon the little band of His disciples, He pleaded for their liberty:
"If therefore ye seek Me, let these go their way."
The great sinewy hands were laid upon His shoulders that had still to bear so much. Fiercely, unnecessarily, they pulled Him hither and thither, shaking and pressing Him who wished but to obey.
He was their prisoner now. The final act of the world's great tragedy was still to be accomplished; the foulest depths of man's iniquity to be plumbed, and the full measure of the blasphemy to be revealed. Their prisoner, He who had been daily amongst them, in the Temple, on the mountains, by the seashore!
Then Peter, unable any longer to bear the strain, impetuous, hasty, longing to wipe out his carelessness and sleep, cried out: "Lord, shall we smite with the sword?"
And, without waiting for an answer, he seized his sword, and cut off the ear of Malchus, who, besides being in the service of Caiaphas, was his kinsman.
As usual, Peter had committed an act that would suffice only to incense still more the party of Caiaphas against the Christ. A spasm of pain crossed the face of Jesus. This was no time for wrath, or cavilling, or pitting strength against strength. It was a time when only truth and meekness could prevail, if aught could prevail against the prince of this world and those urged on by him. But He could nullify this foolish action. With infinite gentleness He touched the ear and it was healed.
"Suffer me thus far," He said. Then, turning ​to Peter, He continued, "Put up again thy sword into its place : for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to My Father, and He shall presently give Me more than twelve legions of angels? But how then shall the Scriptures be fulfilled, that thus it must be?"
Poor foolish Peter, where, indeed, was thy faith, if thou didst think to protect the King of kings with thy feeble hand?
But the hour was wearing on. These miracles and incidents were beginning to influence the little crowd; the officers must allow no superstitious fears to animate them; they must perform their duty. This Man needed no binding and no force, but the law must be obeyed; that grinding millstone that for so many years had pounded and ground down the brains and hearts of man, till they had become but a mingled dust of foulness and evil and severity, a very powder of Satan's own compounding.
So His sacred hands were bound and tied behind His back, and chains were set round Him who in one brief moment could have burst them all, if so He would. What scorn in the words He addressed to them while their clumsy fingers fumbled with cord and band! Yet in their fear lest He should escape what homage to His power!
"Are ye come out as against a thief, with swords and staves, for to take Me?"
But to their hearts He seemed to say: "Are ye too blind to see the difference between an evil-doer, who would escape death, and one wholly good, who seeks to die?"
​Then, in the darkness they bore Him away, across the little brook and up the hill that, but a few hours before, He had trodden as a free man indeed, though with a sickening agony in His pure heart. Then a little band of friends had been about Him; now when He gazed round the multitude, He caught no responding look, no friendly glance, for all His loved disciples had forsaken Him and fled. Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour, the Messiah, was alone; bereft of friends; for the stern countenances that the winter moon lit up were those of foes.
Alone! Alone! Yet not quite, for one was there who had himself passed through the agony of death, who loved Him with a reverent, enduring love and would never desert Him. Afraid to come near Him, lest the crowd should fear some miracle, or lest by death He should be separated from Jesus at the supreme moment of His yielding up His life, yet with a heart that yearned to comfort, Lazarus mingled with the crowd. But the spirit of persecution was abroad. The stream of man's evil might run its course to-night at will. Cries rose: " 'T is Lazarus; perchance he followeth to let this Man go. Let him, too, be taken to Annas, for he is a follower of this Man: and, if he hath not fled, 't is that some mischief breweth. Bind him! Bind him!"
"Slay him! Slay him!" cried the multitude, and some of the soldiers crowded round him and tried to take him prisoner. One man even caught hold of his linen robe; but Lazarus, with a twist of his body, slipped downwards out of his garment and fled away in the darkness. Better so, than die while the Lord had need of him. And all the multitude ​cried out: ' 'T is yet another miracle. This man shall never die."
And so they entered the gates of Jerusalem, the band of soldiers swollen to a dense mass of followers, so that it seemed that all the city had assembled to see the Saviour die.
But the divine figure in the midst said never a word, uttered no cry or murmur; and the moon looked on coldly, nor veiled her face. No thunder, no great lights from heaven, no angels ascending and descending, no earthquakes, no falling down of great mountains, no sudden striking of men to death, proclaimed to the world that this Man was different from any other, or that the Son of God would die.
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