Forgotten Ground Regained

The Yule Tree

In a grove of the woods, away from the homesteadswas that sacred spot · the Spirit of all life deigned to dwell in. None could doubt who saw it how holy and haunted · that hallow of the god, the eldest of oak; of all in the forest greatest in girth; the ground he overshadowed broader than a mead-hall, his mighty branches the timbers of its roof; towering he uplifted his head in the heavens, hearing and uttering in whispers to the winds · words that men know not, runes of the High Ones, roots in the earth fixed and fastened, firmly implanted unmoving in the mould, where mortals honoured him. So seemed he in summer, the season of his power, awesome and noble. Now, the oppressors, Death and Dark, are driving him hard, sapping his strength. Stripped by the Frost-demons of his green garment, his ground-shadowing limbs bare as old bones, when the blizzards mock him how wildly he mourns, bewailing his distress! For the Lord of Life, beleaguered by Winter, ails now in anguish. · From of old it has been spoken how at Yule of the year · he must yield him to Death that quells even gods, and quicken the springtime never more in the middle-earth, save if men in devotion restore again life · to the Lord who bestowed it., to the Giver of all Good · bringing again his own. So one man now walks, with worshippers about him, to the place appointed, set apart and hallowed for the keeping of that custom, as the counsel of dread that their forefathers followed · they fulfill in their turn. He mourns not his fate, for a man must die, and better in this battle · where the bliss of the summertime, prosperity for his people, is the prize to be won, than stretched on the straw, stricken with age -- a dastard's death, that is deemed for a warrior. The sacrifice is near. Your sufferings endure But a little while, Lord, and your loss shall be made good.
Copyright © Pat Masson, 1994. Published with the permission of her family.