He calmly stands on the mountain's brow.
God shield thee, thou lonely prophet, now!
For thy friends are few, and thy foes are strong,
And each heart beats high in that mocking throng;
And every eye is fixed upon thee,
As thou standest alone in thy majesty.

The prophets of Baal are many and great,
And they move along in princely state;
With a scornful eye and a haughty air,
They have proudly taken their station there;
While the blood of thy comrades stains the sod,
And thou only art left a prophet of God.

Yet firm is thy step, and calm thy brow—
The Lord God of hosts is for thee now;
And, strong in his strength, thou mayest advance,
And defy the world with thy piercing glance;
While the prophets of Baal bend at thy nod,
And the people own that the Lord, he is God.

The sun shines bright in the azure sky,
And the morning breeze sweeps gently by,
And all is quiet on earth, in air—
Not a sound escapes from that multitude there;
Though eager each eye and troubled each mien,
Yet the stillness of death reigns over the scene.

But a voice is heard; and clear and loud
It breaks on the ears of the listening crowd;
They quickly obey. A space is cleared;
The bullock is slain, the altar is reared;
While the prophets of Baal around it bend,
And implore their god an answer to send.

The day wears on, and the sun is high—
Still round that altar they madly cry;
But the sky is serene as ever before,
And, frantic with rage, they shout the more;
But 't is all in vain; and the day has past,
And the prophets of Baal have yielded at last.

Each heart beats high with anxiety there,
As Elijah, with calm, majestic air,
Alone and exposed to a nation's frown,
Rebuilds the altar long since thrown down.
'T is the hour for the evening sacrifice now,
And he solemnly kneels on the mountain's brow.

On, the name of the Lord his God he calls;
When, lo! quick as lightning, the fire falls!
A smoke ascends to the vaulted sky,
And with it arises a mingled cry;
And bowed is each head, and bent is each knee
As "The Lord, he is God!" rings loud o'er the sea.

'T is night, and the evening breeze grows chill;
The prophet pleads with Jehovah still;
He has seen the prophets of Baal slain.
And now he implores for the falling rain.
The heavens grow black at Jehovah's word;
Arise, Elijah, thy prayer is heard!