Martha clutched my arm and said: “Lord, let us leave. Lazarus has been dead four days. He stinks.” A funeral procession passed by—men and women—the men carrying a child’s coffin. “God, our Father, help us. Give this man life again!” I beseeched with passion. I knew, as I prayed, that Lazarus would respond. Swaying, wrapped in burial clothes, Lazarus appeared, a scarf across his face. He could not see or move his hands. I went to him and Martha uncovered his eyes. Mary ran to help. We unwrapped his legs and arms. “Jesus has given you life,” Martha said. “You are going home with us...you are one of us again.” Stumbling over rocks, Mary guiding him, Lazarus found a place to sit down. We unbound him and someone gave him a robe. Someone offered him a piece of bread. He shook his head, stared at us, turned from one to the other, his face birdlike, hawklike, white. He peered at his crypt. Martha hugged him, laughing. People gathered. Some knelt around us. “Mary, what happened?” Lazarus began, speaking his first words. “Why am I here in this place? Why am I wearing a robe? And these people... and Jesus! Was I sick? Where are my clothes?” I longed to leave this place of death: it was closing in on me. The wind blew harder and a hawk leaped upward. With Martha I walked away, listening to her happiness, her praise. “We must have supper. What shall we eat? Will he be hungry, able to eat? Jesus, you have saved him. I love you. It’s wonderful! He’s back...think of it, after four days. Then, then there is no death for us who believe...” At supper Lazarus was unable to talk; he drank a little and soon had bread wet with olive oil. No one had much to say. Lazarus sat next to me. Bending over his plate he gave me a few boyish grins—like old times. He had gotten into his work clothes. Putting his hand into a pocket he pulled out a small chisel and laid it on the table. But he said nothing. I urged him to eat Martha’s fish or lamb, delicately prepared. Every face at the table expressed a wonderment and rapture. The candles burned down. The women ate. Suddenly there was chatter and then laughter—rejoicing. It was difficult to return to Jerusalem, leave my friends. I lingered a day for the fields of barley, the paths that were peaceful paths. I had to have time to be with Lazarus, be with Mary and Martha, write my journal. Alongside the carpentry bench I have a table. I prefer writing outdoors. There is a vine on the thatched shed and it is in flower. As I write Lazarus is sleeping on the ground, in the sun. Caretakers at the graveyard claim that one of the crypts has been robbed. Jerusalem I keep hearing the words of an old hymn as I go about; it was John’s favorite, one we learned while at Qumran. Was it solace while he was imprisoned? I hope it was. It is a comfort to me—so gracious. I give thanks unto Thee, O Lord, For Thou has wrought a wonder with dust. Thou hast made me know Thy deep, deep truth, Thou hast given me a voice;