Classic Poem

Scribes and priests, hearken to me,
Simon am I, the Sadducee,
And, in spite of what I tell
Of a dead man made whole and well,
I say there is neither Heaven nor Hell.

Thus did it chance—and only so.
I was coming from Jericho,
And, when near to Bethany,
Had crept under an olive-tree,
Weary of heat and the Dead Sea.

And as I rested, nigh asleep,
I heard a sudden moan sweep,
And looking from the olive-gloom
Bespread over a near hill tomb,
I saw a surging throng loom.

And out of the throng I heard a cry,
‘Master, why did you let him die?’
From a lone woman's grief it came—
One of two that called his name—
And seemed to smite his heart as flame.

For tears were started in his breast,
Like waters from a fountain prest.
And lo, come to the tomb, he said,
In words that with sore yearning bled,
‘Roll the stone away from the dead.’

And swift they rolled its weight away,
As you have heard his people say.
And then he cried—I swear, thus—
In a voice flung as wind through us,
‘I bid you to come forth, Lazarus.’

And slowly out of the grave there came,
Bound about—like one who's lame—
With clothes at the feet, and face, too,
This Lazarus—a mere Jew—
Who had been dead … whole days through!

And as he came a great awe fell—
Seeming to fold the earth as well.
Yet if the hill shook, I know not:
Though such a strength, there begot,
Nigh left me as the wife of Lot.

But soon the throng cried out, ‘He lives!’
At which a little shiver he gives—
Then falls down at the Master's feet,
And the women running, glad and fleet,
Took from him the winding-sheet.

There was rejoicing, far and near,
And thronging about, his tale to hear.
Yet, by the rod of Moses, all
Of moment still was to befall!
For he but stood there in his pall.

Till some at last cried, ‘Master, bid
Him tell us what in death he did.
For we would know of the Abyss—
Of Sheol coming after this—
Whether it be a pain or bliss!’

And the throng pressed closer, closer still,
When Lazarus shook, as if his will
Had scarcely yet from death come back.
And then he stood there, all a-lack,
Looking as one upon the rack.

But still the throng cried, ‘Bid him speak!’
Till he who raised the dead grew weak,
And a sweat broke out upon his brow—
A sweat of faltering, all allow,
Whether to bid the dead avow.

Yet, louder still, ‘Yea, let us know
What Heaven is, if there we go;
For we will believe what man has seen.’
They cried again: and he, grown lean,
Turned at last with a granting mien.

But then did Lazarus loose his lips,
As one whom a great loving grips,
And said, ‘Nay, Lord, send them away;
To you alone will I first say
What I have seen of Heaven this day.’

So he unto them said, ‘Stand off:
Have I not shown ye signs enough?’
And they obeyed, though lothfully,
Murmuring backward from the tree,
Where those two stood alone with me.

Then was it that this Healer said,
‘Speak!’ and hope to his word was wed;
Such hope as never hung before
At the tomb's unrevealing door.
The very sun stood eager o'er.

And Lazarus stammered forth, ‘Dear Lord,
Shall I so pierce you with a sword?
In the four days of my death-gloom
I have but lain as in a womb:
Emptiness only has the tomb!’

And he, their ‘Lord’ and ‘Master’ called,
Paled to his heart, as if appalled.
But only a space, then beauty spread,
Strange as the power that raised the dead,
Over his limbs and lit his head.

And then he gently turned away
And to the throng I heard him say,
‘Look on my face and search ye out
Whether of Heaven ye should doubt!’
And all cried, ‘Nay, Lord,’ with a shout.

So I, Simon, the Sadducee,
Still say that Heaven nor Hell may be.
And yet if thus the dead arise,
Who is there in his heart denies
That in this man a Prophet cries?