I am Lazarus, lying still.
In the whitewashed tomb
even time stops running,
runs down, stops.
The air is still, unstirred by
breath of life; deep dark
unbroken by flashing eye,
or a rogue smile.
I am Lazarus, numb,
unfeeling, unknowing,
unloving, undone;
deep in death, I am still.
And it dawns on me that he
is God. My eyes fly
open, my heart also,
and my grave.