The messenger’s face was pale. “A vast army is coming against us—from Edom, from beyond the sea.”
Jehoshaphat didn’t speak. He gripped the edge of the throne till it stopped his hands from shaking. The council murmured, waiting for command. He should have sent riders. He should have prepared defenses. But the army was already in Hazazon Tamar. Days away.
His thoughts turned cold. “Gather the people,” he said. “All of them. We will fast.”
By evening the courtyards of the temple swelled with men and women, shaking with hunger and fear. Children clung to their mothers. Jehoshaphat knelt on the stone. His voice broke as he prayed.
“O Lord, God of our fathers,” he said, eyes lifted to the skies above the temple. “Are You not God in heaven? Power and might are in Your hand, so that none can stand against You.”
He heard a child wail. He faltered, then pressed on.
“We have no power to face this great horde. We do not know what to do—but our eyes are on You.”
The silence afterward was loud. The wind pushed dust across the stones.
Then movement—one among the Levites, rising with a trembling breath. His voice rang clear. “Thus says the Lord: ‘Do not be afraid. The battle is not yours, but God’s.’”
Jehoshaphat’s head dropped. He wept, where his people could see.
**
Morning came hard and golden. The army gathered on the road to Tekoa. Not soldiers first, but singers—robes swaying, voices raised.
“Give thanks to the Lord,” they sang, “for His steadfast love endures forever.”
Jehoshaphat walked among them. The shortest of them—barely a youth—met his eyes with a strange peace. No one reached for their swords.
The valley stretched before them, glinting like brass. Hills circled inward. Somewhere on the wind, metal clashed.
No scouts returned. Still, they marched, step by uneven step, voices hoarse in the dry air.
When they reached the ridge, the song fell away. One by one, they saw.
The valley below, choked with corpses.
Tents collapsed. Spears abandoned. Smoke curled from empty fires. No enemy lifted a hand. The armies had turned on each other in the night.
Jehoshaphat froze where he stood. His chest stilled as though even breathing would profane the sight.
It was not relief he felt. It was awe—and an edge of fear.
He stepped forward slowly, then dropped to his knees in the dirt, robes pooling around him.
“The Lord has shown us mercy,” someone whispered.
Three days passed while they gathered plunder—cloaks, silver, harnesses untouched by fire. Laughter came on the second day. Children darted through the grass with no one calling them back.
On the fourth morning, Jehoshaphat asked for silence. The army stood in the Valley of Beracah, arms full, mouths parted in awe.
There were no battle wounds.
He raised his hands—not as a king, but as a man.
And from a thousand lips, praise rose like water, steady and unstoppable.
Jehoshaphat spoke no words.
He had nothing left to ask.
The messenger’s face was pale. “A vast army is coming against us—from Edom, from beyond the sea.”
Jehoshaphat didn’t speak. He gripped the edge of the throne till it stopped his hands from shaking. The council murmured, waiting for command. He should have sent riders. He should have prepared defenses. But the army was already in Hazazon Tamar. Days away.
His thoughts turned cold. “Gather the people,” he said. “All of them. We will fast.”
By evening the courtyards of the temple swelled with men and women, shaking with hunger and fear. Children clung to their mothers. Jehoshaphat knelt on the stone. His voice broke as he prayed.
“O Lord, God of our fathers,” he said, eyes lifted to the skies above the temple. “Are You not God in heaven? Power and might are in Your hand, so that none can stand against You.”
He heard a child wail. He faltered, then pressed on.
“We have no power to face this great horde. We do not know what to do—but our eyes are on You.”
The silence afterward was loud. The wind pushed dust across the stones.
Then movement—one among the Levites, rising with a trembling breath. His voice rang clear. “Thus says the Lord: ‘Do not be afraid. The battle is not yours, but God’s.’”
Jehoshaphat’s head dropped. He wept, where his people could see.
**
Morning came hard and golden. The army gathered on the road to Tekoa. Not soldiers first, but singers—robes swaying, voices raised.
“Give thanks to the Lord,” they sang, “for His steadfast love endures forever.”
Jehoshaphat walked among them. The shortest of them—barely a youth—met his eyes with a strange peace. No one reached for their swords.
The valley stretched before them, glinting like brass. Hills circled inward. Somewhere on the wind, metal clashed.
No scouts returned. Still, they marched, step by uneven step, voices hoarse in the dry air.
When they reached the ridge, the song fell away. One by one, they saw.
The valley below, choked with corpses.
Tents collapsed. Spears abandoned. Smoke curled from empty fires. No enemy lifted a hand. The armies had turned on each other in the night.
Jehoshaphat froze where he stood. His chest stilled as though even breathing would profane the sight.
It was not relief he felt. It was awe—and an edge of fear.
He stepped forward slowly, then dropped to his knees in the dirt, robes pooling around him.
“The Lord has shown us mercy,” someone whispered.
Three days passed while they gathered plunder—cloaks, silver, harnesses untouched by fire. Laughter came on the second day. Children darted through the grass with no one calling them back.
On the fourth morning, Jehoshaphat asked for silence. The army stood in the Valley of Beracah, arms full, mouths parted in awe.
There were no battle wounds.
He raised his hands—not as a king, but as a man.
And from a thousand lips, praise rose like water, steady and unstoppable.
Jehoshaphat spoke no words.
He had nothing left to ask.
