As when a wave

That rears itself, a wall of polished glass

For leagues along the shore, and hangs in air

Falls with one deafening crash, so rose the shout



Of answering acclamation from the crowd.

White-faced, with restless lips and anxious eyes

Baal’s prophets heard, their hundreds cowed and mute

Before one man. They dared not, in mere shame



Decline the challenge.”

They writhed and tore

In ecstasies of grief and rage. At last

They hung their heads in mute despair, and looked

Upon the ground.”

The God we serve maintains his throne

Above the clouds, beyond the skies;

Through all the earth his will is done;

He knows our groans, he hears our cries.



But the vain idols men adore

Are senseless shapes of stone or wood;

At best a mass of glittering ore,

A silver saint, or golden god.



Shine forth in all thy dreadful name!

Why should a Papist’s haughty tongue

Insult us, and to bring us shame,

Set up the gods dethroned so long?