lazarus

"He is not coming."
the whispers behind the door seep through 
the cracks and i see the shadow of
restless feet pacing, pacing
as my sisters, sick with worry,
wring their hands and pray. 

i know what this means,
in this short space where the fever
has parted and given
momentary clarity; i know
in his absence He has failed me,
although i do not know why.
my spirit will go, instead, to Him,

for i see death in the corner-
that old enemy of mine,
whose hand is lifted as he beckons me to come.
i can't resist, not anymore;
i will sink down, down
into the dark, into that night 
which has no name. 

He did not come for me
and i do not see the faces of my sisters
or hear their screams when they find my body
or the cries of the mourners as they fill the room.
i do not see the funeral procession
or the white cloth laid over me.
i do not see martha, in her anger,
or mary, in her grief. 

i do not feel the dampness of the tomb
in which they lay me down;
i don't know if days or years or centuries
in the darkness pass me by.
i do not hear His voice outside the door
or the accusations of my sisters
as they cry out, why didn't You come?
i do not hear Him weep.

but a voice that bursts on my ears like thunder
reaches through the dark and pulls me
from the depths; it plunges into death
and finds me there, brings me wide awake and gasping 
to the light that streams in from open doorway.
i do not know who woke me
but heavy with what seems like sleep
i sit up and look around and see

the burial clothes, the damp stone walls,
the carven floor, and through the fog that clouds my brain
i am struck with horror
and something else: a breeze, full
with the spring scent of wild flowers,
banishing the mustiness,
filling this grave with the smell of new life. 

come forth, He says, and i realize
that i have to go. i cannot resist, not anymore;
the shrouds are thrown to the floor
in wild abandon and with joy i step out
into life, into the light,
into the waiting arms
of the One who came for me.