At our Workshop in NY, Kjell Skyllstad shared with us a poem that changed the Norwegian Constitution:

CHRISTMAS EVE
by Henrik Wergeland
at http://www.vetssweatshop.net/poem1.htm

Imagine a storm that seems as if heaven
unleashed its very worst?
A storm as if every soul, from Cain to God’s
last condemned, cursing the earth, from hell
escaped and tempted them to betray heaven?

A storm, whose voices of terror can never be
forgotten?
For all would think it must be sent for me
alone, that hurricane’s thunder meant for me and
only me, about whose sins the spirits just have
learned.

A storm the strength of which could teach
priests and pious alike to worship demons in
that element, in which the crash the old man
could hear, from childhood in his moss-grown
ear, an earthquake of the clouds, doomsday of
the air?

A storm that shook the strong man’s heart
hidden to his chest, a storm from heaven, in
which he heard spirits call his name, carried past
him by gales, and every treetop screamed like
ravens?

But the ravens hid in the crevice, the wolf held
his hunger, and the fox dared not go out.
In the house every light was extinguished, and
the leash dog was kept indoors.
In such a storm, God, will you hear prayers?

In such a storm - it was a Christmas eve – when
night fell before the day had reached its end,
there was a Jew, nearly overcome, who found
himself in Sweden’s desolation, the Tived Forest
He was expected in town for the sake of
Christmas, by girls longing for his bag of
buckies, lace and everything they needed for the
morrow, Second day and New Year’s.
Their longing was strong and full of faith, for "old
Jacob" had never missed a Christmas he was as
sure as Christmas was itself.

In such a storm-
"Slush! Was it again the storm that howled
through the branches? It screamed. Now it’s
screaming yet again." And Old – Jacob abruptly
paused and listened for the second time. There,
it was quiet For the storm is increasing the way
a waterfall washed over a drowning man. He
keeps walking "Slush! Again a sound!" – a
sound, cutting through the forest funk. "The
treacherous owl screams like a child. Who
would let a child out in such a storm? Not even
the wolf does that to hers." The old man
trudges again into the snow. Then the scream
set in again, and his doubts fall away, for this
gust, which already flies in a tower over the
forest treetops, carried with it a word, a simple
word and at once he turns to whence a came,
working his way deeper into the forest, deeper
into the snow and the night, which raises itself
as a deep black cliff against his every step, only
visible through the snow, as if the whole forest
were full of flying, shrouded ghosts, howling in
his way, airily on toe they appear, growing
fearsome, then to disappear among the trees.
But the old man fights his way through the
storm. He moves when it grows and holds his
breath when it slows, listening on his knees. But
then he jumps up and walks into the dark as a
dwarf cuts through the black mold. He hears
no more. The old man trembles at the thought
that evil spirits are playing with him, and
mumbles forth his own prayers. Then a cry
comes forth again and quite near, though his
own shout the storm pushes back into his
throat. But here, yes here! Ten more steps!
Something dark is moving in the snow, as if the
storm had played with a log loosened from its
root.

O Lord, an arm! O Lord, a child! A child! But
dead! – "Did the stars think that on this night,
when the Star of Bethlehem shone among them
that nothing good could happen on Earth? For
none of them saw, that Old Jacob, happy as
though he had found a treasure, threw – without
the slightest hesitation – away his entire fortune:
the bag, pulled off his threadbare cloak,
enveloped the child’s limbs, exposed his chest,
and put the cold cheek to it until it awoke from
his heartbeat. Then he leaped up. But to where?
For the storm had covered his tracks – but not to worry.

For in the thunder in the forest tops he only
heard David’s jubilant harps. He saw the gusts
as cherubs, showing him the way on swan white
wings, and in that to and fro, he followed,
feeling the Lord’s strong guiding hand.

But to find a house in the wild Tiveden, in such
a night, when lights were kept unlit? And
midway was only a simple place, the roof of
which could not be told from the snow – and by
a miracle he found it. There he collapsed. He
could go no further – and many gusts he
endured before he took his load and struggled
to the door. He knocked softly at first, so as to
not awake the child, and now for the first time
he missed his old bag, for he had nothing to give
the good, poor people who soon, with
hospitality, would open the door. Oh, he knocked
many times before it answered. "In the name of
our Savior, who comes here in such a night?
"The old Jacob. Don’t you know me? The old Jew?

"Jew?" cried the horrified couple. "Then stay
outside! We have nothing with which to buy,
and only misfortune will you bring to this house,
on this night, when he was born that you killed."

"I killed?"
"Yes, your people, and that is the sin, which
shall be punished through a thousand
generations."
"Ach! In this night, when even the dog is kept indoors?
"Yes, the dog, but no Jew in this, a Christian house."
He heard no more. The harsh words blew
through him colder than the wind, and threw
him, harder than any storm, down into the
snow, bent over the sleeping child. And then it
seemed to him, even while he stared toward the
window, as if the white face appeared again, as
if he sank in feathers, and precious heat flowed
through his veins, and as familiar beings,
whispering like simmer winds, surrounded him,
until a lifted finger said, come, he sleeps. And
into a well-lit hall nearby they went, only the
child stayed at his feet, pulling the pillows more
around him, until at last he felt, that also he fell
asleep - Where the snow was that grew around
the dead man.

"O Jesus! The Jew is still there!" the husband
shouted, when he looked out that morning.
"Then chase him off! It is Christmas morning,"
the wife chimed in. And see the Jewish way in
which he holds his goods to his chest!" "He is
aggressive with his goods. With a stiff gaze he
looks in here, as if we had money with which to
buy." "Though I’d like to see what he has to
sell." "So show us Jew!"
They both went out.
The frozen glaze they saw in the corpse’s eyes.
They paled more than that, they screamed and
shook in remorse.
"Oh Jeremiah!"
"What accident has happened!"
They stood him up and his load came with.
They opened the cloak. And there, around the
Jew’s neck - Margaret, their child – a corpse like
him.
A lightning doesn’t strike, and adder doesn’t bite,
the way horror and pain hit the couple then. The
snow wasn’t as pale as the father, the storm
didn’t howl as the mother "Oh God has
punished us! Not the cold of the storm, but our
own cruelty has killed our child! For naught!
Ah, for naught the Jew for the sake of mercy
knocked on our door!"

When the forest again became fit for travel,
message came from the farm, where Greta was
kept in foster care, and whence she went, when
Christmas bells were rung and before the storm
set in, wandering on her own to visit her parents
on Christmas eve. But they came not to ask
about the child, but about the Jew from the
town girls, whose home to go to church was
postponed to New Year’s if he came.

Where he lay dead before the fireplace, the
husband sat with the fixed stare of the frozen
Jew’s and bending like the corpse, the fire
increased so the corpse was stretched and arms
folded. But before him on his knees was
Margaret’s mother, her daughter’s arms still
stronger around the dead man’s neck. "She
belongs no more to us," she cried. "He has
acquired the child with his death. We dare not
separate little Greta from him, for she must
intercede on our behalf to Jesus with his Father
- because He will listen to a poor Jew."