He's not, actually. He won't rise for another week if you're following the Greek calendar. It's Lazarus Saturday today.
I have only spent one Easter in Cyprus, but it remains a strong memory. I was ten or so. Bright, white heat, stone beaches and rabbit filled cages in the back yard. My parents worried over the clothes we wore to the Easter procession, and church. I wore shorts, in the end; clearly I must have been young enough for it not to matter.
We kissed the plastic covering the icons and shuffled around the cool floors. Years later I'd lean down to kiss the brass plaque on an Uncle's coffin in London and the sting of incense, the brewing quiet rumble of emotion would make my mind flicker back to the coloured gilt of the Cyprus church. In the car I'd listen to T-Rex and think about my relatives crossing themselves.
Christos anesti; alithos anesti. (Soon).