death; a blinding of the eyes, as though the sun's too-scorching rays had struck the eyeballs; and, here and there, a dumb opening of the mouth as if to speak, though utterance could not come. A sickening dread, as if heaven and hell would open wide their gates to them. This, and far more than this, fell on the Jews, and the crowd, that had denied the Christ and clamoured to see Lazarus alive, were satisfied, each doubt laid still, each question answered. The power of the Eternal had been shown.
What could they do but fall down in adoration and belief? This would come, but meantime the multitude, from sheer excitement, wept.
One voice alone was raised in doubt.
"Is it indeed he?"
It came from one well known to the Nazarene. It was a voice He loved, as often it is the voice one loves the best that wounds the most.
It was Thomas the unbeliever who had spoken—Thomas, to whom faith came ever hardly, yet who loved the Lord. But the words had lashed the seeming feverishness of silence into a living cry.
"Is it he? Is it he, or is it another? Show us thy face! Art thou indeed Lazarus?"
"Loose him and let him go," commanded the Messiah, for all answer; but the voice that had spoken with such force to raise the dead man from the grave was weary now, and tired and disappointed. Even now, when the great miracle was over, when God Himself had seemed to bow to earth to fashion the triumph of His Son; when heaven and hell, at His command, had thrown back their
