1 Kings 22:6-15, 32-37

The king of Israel got the prophets together—all four hundred of them—and put the question to them: “Should I attack Ramoth Gilead? Or should I hold back?” “Go for it,” they said. “GOD will hand it over to the king.” But Jehoshaphat dragged his heels: “Is there still another prophet of GOD around here we can consult?” The king of Israel told Jehoshaphat, “As a matter of fact, there is still one such man. But I hate him. He never preaches anything good to me, only doom, doom, doom—Micaiah son of Imlah.” “The king shouldn’t talk about a prophet like that,” said Jehoshaphat. So the king of Israel ordered one of his men, “On the double! Get Micaiah son of Imlah.” Meanwhile, the king of Israel and Jehoshaphat were seated on their thrones, dressed in their royal robes, resplendent in front of the Samaria city gates. All the prophets were staging a prophecy-performance for their benefit. Zedekiah son of Kenaanah had even made a set of iron horns, and brandishing them called out, “GOD’s word! With these horns you’ll gore Aram until there’s nothing left of him!” All the prophets chimed in, “Yes! Go for Ramoth Gilead! An easy victory! GOD’s gift to the king!” The messenger who went to get Micaiah said, “The prophets have all said Yes to the king. Make it unanimous—vote Yes!” But Micaiah said, “As surely as GOD lives, what GOD says, I’ll say.” With Micaiah before him, the king asked him, “So Micaiah—do we attack Ramoth Gilead, or do we hold back?” “Go ahead,” he said. “An easy victory. GOD’s gift to the king.”

When the chariot commanders saw Jehoshaphat they said, “There he is! The king of Israel!” and took after him. Jehoshaphat yelled out, and the chariot commanders realized they had the wrong man—it wasn’t the king of Israel after all. They let him go. Just then someone, without aiming, shot an arrow randomly into the crowd and hit the king of Israel in the chink of his armor. The king told his charioteer, “Turn back! Get me out of here—I’m wounded.” All day the fighting continued, hot and heavy. Propped up in his chariot, the king watched from the sidelines. He died that evening. Blood from his wound pooled in the chariot. As the sun went down, shouts reverberated through the ranks, “Abandon camp! Head for home! The king is dead!”