Martha’s Message

My Lord, the one you love is sick.  Come quickly,
if that our love for you means anything;
if ever in our house you feasted richly
in honor and respect less friend than king;
and at your feet my sister listening
and Lazarus my brother at your side.
How can we feast again when he has died?

But come you as a brother to my brother
and break upon the darkness over him.
Beneath its weight I see his spirit smother
and see him waste away in every limb.
What light of hope I had is growing dim.
Why did our mother bear us, give us breath,
if we but sigh away until our death?

And yet, she did—a gift that we were given
from God’s hand first, through hers, into our own.
A mercy in itself that we are living.
I would not trade the life that I have known,
not if they both should die, and I alone
go on.  I know we flourish as the grass,
but who can bear to watch the blossom pass?

I have before now nursed the sick and dying,
but never my own flesh, my very blood.
I’ve tended many in their shrouds now lying,
returning dust to dust and mud to mud.
God made these bodies and he called them good,
and yet they break.  They fall into the grave.
But you have power—will you come to save?

Or is my hope a desperate illusion?
All men must die.  Our lives are but a breath—
but still we breathe and breathe in such profusion,
who can believe the end is merely death?
I trust in you: Make that your shibboleth
and know that we are yours.  Come heal your own.
My brother in the darkness walks alone.

For days now at his bedside I have hovered
and brooded on the waters of his life:
They drain away, O friend, and we who love him
are balanced on the sharp edge of the knife.
Despair or hope: Who conquers in our strife?
The Lord has given; he will take away,
but, oh!, not yet!  Then come without delay!

For well I know that when you speak, God listens
who promised not to leave us with the dead.
But what are promises to face this sickness?
Oh me, I thought I had more confidence.
I trust in God, but find it no defense
against the darkness pressing on my soul.
And Mary weeps and will not be consoled.

If Lazarus should die—O God, prevent it!—
my sister so will bathe him in her tears
and wipe him with her hair.  Her garments rending,
she will anoint his body—See my fears!
I weep in silence, doubting if God hears.
I tell her nothing, writing this to you.
Come quickly, Lord; I don’t know what to do.

If death should come, if we must live without him,
then blessèd be the name—still—of the Lord.
In linen and in spices we’ll enshroud him
and face the day that we have so abhorred.
Yes, we will drink the cup that sorrow’s poured.
And if you cannot come to him by the end,
then come and face the grave with us, my friend.