Reflection: The death and raising of Lazarus

I dreamt last night
that I was at his feet again,
lying there, helpless, weeping,
unable to shake the grief and pain
that stormed within me.
I couldn’t look at his face.
I couldn’t lift my eyes to see his eyes,
afraid perhaps of finding his tears there again,
afraid that this time he might turn from me
though he never has before.

Where is he now
when I need him most?
Who will heal this ache within me?
I woke with fists and stomach clenched
hardly able to breathe.

A dream, a dream, only a dream.
But it was no dream
when in my house,
so long ago it seems
I took the most expensive gift,
the lavish prize of rich ointment
and fell at his feet
to cover his precious skin
with perfume and tears.

There was nothing else to give,
no other way to show
my love, my need,
my joy at his tenderness and goodness.
With my tears I prepared his feet
for the journey ahead of him,
but not my heart for the life and death to come.

I wished it were a dream
when my brother died,
and loss bore down heavily on all who loved him well.
Why did he not come?
I wanted so much to rebuke him,
rail against this too sudden death,
question the point of all this pain …
until he came… and I fell before him
covering his feet with my tears.
That day I saw the earth give up its dead,
a man walk from the tomb and live.

Can it be that another will rise again?
Can the feet at which I shed my tears,
those feet, battered, bruised, trodden on and nailed,
can they walk again?
If my tears could make them whole –
as they do in my dream –
then let the night end
and the dawn come
and I will weep no more.