The Christ of the Snows

Atlantic Monthly, January 1886. I am afraid I have not turned up
anything really good for Christmas this year; this is more religious
than ghostly. Author is known mostly for short stories, as a pioneer
of psychology, and as the villain in an interpretation of Charlotte
Perkins Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper" which I have never been
able to understand. (though the story itself is maybe no great shakes
in that direction.)

THE CHRIST OF THE SNOWS
A NORWEGIAN LEGEND

[by S. Weir
Mitchell]

SET wine on the table
And bread on the plate
Cast logs on the ashes,
And reverent wait.

The wine of love's sweetness
Set out in thy breast,
And the white bread of Welcome,
To comfort the Guest.

For surely he cometh,
Now midnight is near;
The wild winds, like wolf packs,
Have fled in their fear,

Or his in far fjords,
Or died in the floes:
For surely He cometh,
Our Christ of the Snows.

Along by the portal,
Half joy and half fear,
Wait man, maid, and matron
The step none shall hear:

The babe at the doorway,
And age with eyes dim,--
They whom birth near or death near
Make closest to Him.

The clock tolleth midnight:
Cast open the door:
Shrink back ere He passeth,
Kneel all on the floor.

The stillness of terror
Possesseth the night,
From star-haunted heaven
To snow spaces white.

Lo! Shaken by ghost gods
Who angrily fly,
The banners of Odin
Flame red on the sky.

The last note hath stricken:
Did He pass? Was He here?
Is it sorrow or joy that
Shall rule the new year?

The mother that watcheth
The face of the child
Saith, Ah, He was with us,--
The baby hath smiled!

The virgin who bends o'er
The cup on the board
Cries, Lo, the wine trembled,--
'T was surely the Lord!

Sing Christmas, sweet Christmas,
All good men below;
Sing Christmas that bringeth
Our Christ of the Snow.