In the hall of Plymouth’s stone, where the raven-law is weighed,
One man stands when eleven fold, unmoved by the weeping shade.
He will not drink the draught of doubt they press upon his tongue;
The three small ghosts cry out for blood, and his hammer-heart is wrung.
By Thor’s own oath he holds the line: the mother must answer the deed.
No skald of pity, no silk-soft plea shall make the steel recede.
The foreman’s note flies like a spear, “This one will not obey!”
They summon him before the throne, they test him in the day.
He looks the judge full in the eye, he speaks no crooked rune;
The law is iron, the law is fire, and midnight comes too soon.
Eleven wolves circle the fire, their voices low and sweet;
He plants his feet like Yggdrasil and will not yield a seat.
Hear now the metal of his soul, the thunder in his chest:
“The babes lie cold beneath the earth; I will not grant her rest.
Reasonable doubt is not a cloak to hide a slaughter’s stain;
I saw the rope, I heard the fall, I will not look again.
Bring her to justice, let the axe fall clean upon the crime;
I stand alone, I stand for them, until the end of time.”
So let the skalds of later years remember this lone thane,
Who would not sell three children’s deaths for mercy’s cheaper gain.
When horns sound in the mead-hall dark and battles fade to myth,
They’ll sing of him who held the shield when all the rest went with.
Hail the holdout, hail the man who would not break his word;
The gods still watch the jury-room, and they have seen, and heard.
