On the altar in a row
The golden cups made glorious show!
Each King with his mailed hand
Took the red wine from its stand;
Each his right arm raised on high,
Pointing toward the eastern sky;
Then lowly on their knees they sank,
Their helmed heads bowing ere they drank.
With clasped hands they seemed to wait
The award of God and fate,
That His will he should reveal.
One dread moment, the appeal
Was by answering thunder heard;
In that utterance was the token
How of old the Word was spoken;
That God communed still with man,
As when time his race began.