Lazarus

Lazarus
by R.S. Mitchell

At morn we passed a hall where song
And dance had been and wine flowed free,
And where, 'mid wrecks of revelry,
Had lain the feasters all night long.

They saw us through the mist of dawn,
And, turning, called us to their feast—
The sound of lutes and cymbals ceased—
But one He fixed His gaze upon.

In whose wide eyes there seemed to be—
Behind the laughing, wine-flushed face
And tilted ivy-crown's gay grace—
Faint glimpses of Eternity.

Then sad, the Master bowed His head,
And, through the rosy twilight, dim,
Walked up and softly spake to him:
"Art thou not he that late was dead?"

The drinker raised his cup on high,
And murmured: "Priest of Nazareth,
I am he thou didst raise from death—
Lo, thus I wait again to die!"