Israel, in ancient days,
Not only had a view
Of Sinai in a blaze,
But learned the gospel too:
The types and figures were a glass
In which they saw the Saviour’s face.

The paschal sacrifice,
The blood besprinkled door,
Seen with enlightened eyes,
And once applied with power,
Would teach the need of other blood
To reconcile the soul to God.

The lamb, the dove, set forth
His perfect innocence,
Whose blood of matchless worth,
Should be the soul’s defence;
For He who can for sin atone,
Must have no failings of His own.

The scapegoat on his head
The people’s trespass bore,
And to the desert led
Was to be seen no more:
In him our Surety seemed to say,
“Behold, I bear your sins away.”

Dipped in his fellow’s blood,
The living bird went free;
The type, well understood,
Expressed the sinner’s plea,
Described a guilty soul enlarged,
And by a Saviour’s death discharged.

Jesus, I love to trace
Throughout the sacred page,
The footsteps of Thy grace,
The same in every age.
O grant that I may faithful be
To clearer light vouchsafed to me!