A hostile league girds us around,
A host against but two,
No hope at all for us is found,
Alas! what shall we do?

The morning light was resting
Upon the Syrian foe
Samaria’s plain investing
With tents of gleaming snow.

The ruddy beams were glancing
From many a steel-clad band.
On fiery steeds advancing,
The pride of Syria’s land.

The trumpet’s call was sounding,
The eager war-horse neighed;
Among the hills resounding,
A martial echo played.

My Lord! the servant said,
Lift up thine eyes and see,
The city is surrounded,
We may no longer flee.

The prophet wakened slowly
From out his trance of prayer;
His look was calm and holy,
No fear at all was there.

He marked how round the city
The hostile lines were drawn,
And smiled a smile of pity,
With just a touch of scorn.

He saw his prostrate servant,
And said, My son, arise!
And then, in accents fervent,
“Open, O Lord, his eyes!

“Show him that Thou forsakest
None who put faith in Thee,
And that a way Thou makest
In their extremity.

Behold, my son, how few they be
Who count themselves our foes,
Compared with those bright ranks you see
About our ramparts close.

And when the servant looked again,
He saw a wondrous sight:
The Syrians still were on the plain.
In muster of their might.

But all the mountain round about
Was thronged with armèd forms,
Without a martial clang or shout,
Silent as brooding storms.

From those unnumbered ranks was flung
A radiance bright and keen.
As on the mountain side they hung,
The town and foe between.

And chariots and steeds of fire
Along the mountain passed,
The ministers of heaven’s ire,
Swift as the tempest’s blast.

What mortal arm may dare the fray
Against Jehovah’s name.
When strong archangels bar the way
With swords of restless flame.

About the prophet of the Lord
Was drawn that bright array,
In his defense to lift the sword.
And sweep his foes away.

Bethink thee, Christian soldier.
When the world’s voice is loud.
And ever waxeth bolder
The scoffing of the crowd;

When most thou feelest lonely,
As one against a host,
That their great odds are only
A false and feeble boast.

That there are by thee ever
Whom yet thou canst not see,
Angelic bands who sever
Thy angry foes from thee.

Henry I. D. Ryder
Poems, 1882, pp. 12–15, alt.