I Carried Death… But I Met the Resurrection
A first-person witness from the bier at Nain
I was built for burden.
That’s what I was made to do. Four wooden legs, sturdy frame, worn smooth from years of use. I wasn’t glamorous, but I was reliable. My purpose was simple: to carry the dead.
That morning, the sun rose over Nain like it always did, casting long shadows across the narrow streets. But something in the air felt heavier — a sadness that settled into the dust and silence. The town was grieving.
And me? I was right at the centre of it.
He was young. Too young. His lifeless body rested on me, still and pale. His mother — a widow — walked just behind, her face a storm of sorrow. She had no husband. And now, no son. Her heart had broken so loudly, it echoed through the whole town. I could feel it. Every sob, every tear that hit my frame — it soaked into the grain of my wood.
I’ve carried many before him. But this one… this one felt final.
People gathered. The funeral procession had begun. There was wailing. Mourners shuffled forward with slow steps. I creaked beneath the weight of both death and despair. It was routine, yet unbearable.
And then… He came.
Not from our town. Not part of the procession. Just… interrupted it.
A man. Ordinary-looking, maybe thirty-something. But He carried Himself like He knew something no one else did. He walked right up to us — to me, the death-carrier — and stopped everything.
The whole crowd went still. Even the air seemed to freeze. His eyes locked on the mother. Not the dead boy. Not the mourners. Her.
And I saw it — in His face — compassion. Not pity. Not politeness. Deep, gut-level compassion. Like He could feel every ounce of her pain.
He spoke gently: “Don’t cry.”
Don’t cry?
I’ve heard a lot over the years. Cries. Prayers. Angry shouts at the sky. But never this. Not here. Not now. Who says “don’t cry” at a funeral?
Then it happened. He walked right up to me… and touched me.
Now, let me explain something. That’s not normal. You don’t touch the bier. You don’t touch the dead. Especially not someone like Him — a teacher, a rabbi. It made you unclean.
But He didn’t flinch. He laid His hand on me — solid, purposeful — and suddenly, I wasn’t carrying death anymore.
He said just seven words:
“Young man, I say to you, get up!”
At first, nothing. The silence held its breath. And then—
He moved.
The boy — the dead boy — sat up. Still resting on me. Still wrapped in death’s grip. But blinking. Breathing. Alive.
I swear, if I’d had a mouth, I would’ve shouted for joy. If I had knees, I’d have fallen on them.
He started talking. Talking! Like he’d just woken from a nap. And Jesus — yes, that’s what they called Him — handed him back to his mother. Whole. Healed. Home.
The crowd lost it. Shouts. Praise. Tears of joy. Some fell to the ground. Others lifted their hands to heaven. They didn’t know what to say. I heard words like “Prophet!” and “God has come to help His people!”
But I knew what I’d seen.
Death had met its match.
And I? I had been the stage for a resurrection.
What I Came to Understand
I was just wood and nails. A carrier of corpses. But that day, I became a witness. I realised something no one had ever told me:
Jesus doesn’t just interrupt death — He overrules it.
He didn’t need an invitation. He didn’t need a ceremony. He brought life where there was none, hope where there was heartbreak, joy where grief had settled in.
And it wasn’t just about that boy. It was a glimpse — a preview — of what He came to do for all of humanity.
We’re all like that widow.
Empty. Broken. Powerless to stop death’s march.
We’re all like that son.
Laid out. Lifeless. Carried by the consequences of sin.
But when Jesus steps into the scene — even uninvited — everything changes.
He doesn’t just resuscitate… He resurrects.
He doesn’t just comfort… He conquers.
He doesn’t just weep with us… He wins for us.
The Gospel in the Dust of Nain
I saw the Gospel that day, even though I didn’t have ears to hear it.
Jesus came for the broken-hearted.
He came for the dead and the dying.
He came for the ones no one else could help.
And He didn’t flinch at the cost.
He touched what was “unclean” — just like He touched sinners, lepers, outcasts, and yes — me. And in doing so, He made the unclean clean.
What I witnessed in Nain was only a foretaste. Not long after, He’d face death Himself. Not on a bier like me — but on a cross. And He’d carry not just one body — but the sin of the world.
And three days later?
He’d rise.
So none of us would have to be carried by death ever again.
Final Words From a Bier
I was built to carry the dead.
But that day, I carried a miracle.
And now, I live — if only in memory — to tell you this:
- Jesus is still interrupting funerals.
- Still raising dead hearts.
- Still giving sons back to their mothers, and daughters back to their fathers.
- Still turning grief into joy.
Don’t miss Him when He walks by.
He’s not just a man with kind eyes.
He’s the Resurrection and the Life.
And He’s got a word for you too:
“Get up.”