Lament of Lazarus

Jesus, you’ve come to the tomb 

to crack it open, to peel away 

this body of death, 

but here I am, 

in front of my family, in rags, 

stinking, skin like old cloth, 

only days from the grave, 

and what now, Lord? 

.

They stare at me— 

my sisters, my friends— 

with eyes that dart like birds. 

Even they look like I should’ve stayed 

beneath that rock, 

like I’ve dragged the dirt of death back with me, 

still smeared in grave dust, 

still heavy with the weight of life that crushed me 

and laid me down. 

.

You’ve pulled me from the dark, Jesus, 

but where do I go? 

What do I do now? 

Will I be a footnote, 

a name whispered, 

a trophy for your victory, 

a Lazarus pulled up to prove a point, 

or will my story live beyond these crumbling walls?

.

I am Lazarus, the poor, 

the one who was left, forgotten, 

and now they look at me like death itself, 

like I’ve brought back ghosts to their table. 

I’ve climbed out, yes, 

but I’m marked, Lord, 

every bone remembers the cold, 

the silence, 

the weight of days in the dark. 

.

What am I now? 

Point me somewhere, Jesus. 

Turn me toward light, 

to something that doesn’t ache 

with every step. 

.

Only you, Lord, 

can raise the dead and give breath 

to those who’ve crossed into shadows, 

only you can lift 

the eyes of a man four days gone, 

who’s seen things he’ll never unsee.

© R. Gordon Zyne