I do not know any narrative in the whole Word of God which at once reveals so much of this darkness and light—­of the mystery of sorrow for a time, and the solution of the mystery afterwards—­as that of the sickness, death, and resurrection of Lazarus.

That family in Bethany, we know, consisted of Lazarus and his sisters, Martha and Mary.  They were poor, and unknown to the great and busy world; but their riches and rank in the sight of the ministering angels were great indeed, for Jesus “loved them.”  This was the charter of the grandest inheritance.  But though loved by Jesus, that love did not hinder them from being visited by a sudden affliction, and plunged for a while into deepest gloom.  We are able in spirit to cross their lowly threshold, and to understand all that took place in that humble home:  for human hearts and human sorrows are the same in every age.  Lazarus, the head of the house, is laid on a bed of sickness.  We need no details to enable all who have watched the progress of disease in the beloved member of a family—­and who has been exempted from this anxiety?—­to realise how the symptoms of illness, treated at first perhaps lightly, would become more serious, then alarming, until foreboding thoughts of death pained every tender affection; and we can understand how advice would be asked from kind neighbours, and every possible remedy applied.  But in vain!  The sufferer gets worse, and the signs of approaching dissolution rapidly succeed in delirium, prostration of strength, or altered features, until the chill of hopelessness creeps over the hearts of the sisters, and hot tears fill their watching eyes, and prayers tremble upon their pale lips, as in silence they wait for the dread hour of death to their dear one!  We see it all!

But ere this last moment was reached by Martha and Mary, they are full of hope that it may be averted, for they have a secret source of relief in a Physician of body and soul.  So long as they have Jesus with them, they cannot despair.  He is not, however, in Bethany, but at Bethabara beyond the Jordan, a day’s journey off.  Yet they can send for Him; and they accordingly do so, with this simple message, “Lazarus, whom thou lovest, is sick.”  It is enough.  There is not a word of their love, or of the love of Lazarus to Him.  The appeal is to His own heart.  No request is proffered.  Everything is left to Himself.

Did they not, however, feel assured that Jesus would manifest His love to them in the way which seemed to them the best way,—­nay, the one way only by which they could receive comfort, and be relieved from their anxiety and sorrow,—­and that was by delivering Lazarus from sickness and death?  For they could not but recall at that moment the many instances in which Jesus had displayed His power and love during the three years He had lived amidst the sorrowing and suffering in Judea; how unwearied His goodness had ever been; how “multitudes” had come to Him, and “He healed them all;”