My Dear and Honored Father:
It is with emotions of the deepest grief that I convey to you the sad
intelligence of the death of Lazarus. The hand of the Lord hath fallen
heavily upon this household and stricken down its prop; smitten the
oak around which clung these vine-like sisters, vine-like in their
dependence upon him and confiding trust in his wisdom and love. Now
prostrate in the dust they lie stunned by the sudden and mysterious
stroke of God's providence.
I have told you, dear father, something of this family; what a happy
household I have seen it when Jesus completed the number; for he
stayed so much with them when not preaching, or when wishing to rest
a day or two from his weary toil, that they came to regard him as one
of their family. Martha seemed ever to be thinking what and how she
should administer to his comfort, by providing every delicacy for her
table; but so that Jesus could find listeners to his words of truth and
wisdom, like Mary--who loved to sit at his feet and hear the golden
language fall from his sacred lips--he thought not of meat or drink.
One day when I, with Mary and Lazarus, was listening to his heavenly
teachings, wrapt in wonder and absorbing interest, Martha, who was
preparing the meal, came and desired Mary to come and assist her; but
the dear, pious girl heeded not nor heard her, feeding, forgetful of
all else, upon the celestial food that fell from the lips of Jesus.
At length Martha, finding that Mary had not heard, appealed to Jesus,
saying somewhat sharply:
"Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone?
Bid her, therefore, that she help me."
We turned with surprise to hear her, who was usually so gentle and
good, thus forget what was due to the presence of the Prophet, and
Lazarus was about to speak and excuse his sister, who looked as if she
were much worried with her domestic troubles, when Jesus said kindly to
her:
"Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things. But
one thing is needful, and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall
not be taken away from her. While thou carest much for the wants of the
body, she careth for those of the spirit. Think not, beloved Martha, of
sumptuous living for me, who have no earthly goods, nor even where to
lay my head."
"Say not thus, oh, say not so, dear Lord!" cried Martha, suddenly
bursting into tears at Jesus' touching words, and casting herself
impulsively at his feet. "This house is thy home--ever beneath its
roof, while I have one above me, shalt thou have where to lay thy head;
say not so, my Lord!"
We were all moved at Martha's pathetic earnestness. Jesus raised her up
and said gently:
"It is thy love for me, I well know, that maketh thee so careful and
troubled to provide for me at thy bountiful table. But I have meat to
eat that ye know not of. To teach the truths of God, as thou findest
me doing to these, is to me meat and drink, for therein I am doing my
Father's will, who sent me."
My last letter closed with informing you of the departure of the
messenger to Jesus. After he had gone out of sight from the door,
and the last echo of his horse's hoofs ceased to be heard by the
long-listening ears of his sister Martha, I re-entered the room where
Lazarus lay. He was as white as marble. His large black eyes seemed to
be twice their usual size and brilliancy. He breathed with difficulty,
and every few moments he would be compelled to have his head raised
in order to free his mouth from the welling blood that was constantly
bubbling up from the broken fountains of his life. Mary's tender
privilege it was, assisted by Rachel, to render him this service of
love. As she bent over him, looking downward with anxious fondness
into his pale, intellectual face, watching every shadow of the change
that the sable wing of advancing Death cast over it, I thought I had
never gazed on a more lovely being. I forgot for the moment the dying
young man about whose form her snow-white arms were entwined, his head
reclining upon her bosom, her raven tresses, bronzed with a changing
light, all unbound and floating above him and over his pillow, like a
rich veil interwoven of sable silken floss and threads of gold.
I commenced this letter by informing you of the departure of the good
and generous and pious Lazarus. He fell asleep in death as an infant
sinks to slumber in its mother's arms.
All too late was Jesus sent for! To-morrow his burial will take place.
Alas, how suddenly has perished the noblest young man in Judea!
Farewell, dear father. My heart is full. I can now write no more. The
God of Abraham preserve you in your journey, and bring you in safety to
the embraces of
Your loving daughter,
Adina.