The High Priest. Ps. 45. 7, 8; Heb. 5. 6, 7
J. Hart L.M.
When Aaron, in the holiest place,
Atonement made for Israel’s race,
The names of all their tribes expressed,
He wore conspicuous on his breast.
Twelve lettered stones, with sculpture bold,
Deep seated in the wounded gold,
Glowed on the breastplate richly bright,
And beamed with characteristic light.
His hands a golden censer held,
With burning coals and incense filled,
Which clouded all the holy room
With odorous streams of rich perfume.
And, lest the priest the place defile,
A costly, consecrating oil,
With mingled gums and spices sweet,
Had for his office made him meet.
The liquid compound from his head
Its unctuous odours downward spread;
Delicious drops, like balmy dews,
O’er all the man their sweets diffuse.
Arrayed in hallowed vests he stood,
Sprinkled with holy oil and blood;
The tabernacle’s sacred frame,
And all within it shared the same.
So, when our great Melchisedec
The true atonement came to make,
A holy oil anoints him too,
Richer than Aaron ever knew.
His body, bathed in sweat and blood,
Showered on the ground a purple flood;
The rich effusion copious ran,
To glad the heart of God and man.
Deep in his breast engraved he bore
Our names, with every penal score,
When pressed to earth he prostrate lay;
Shocked at the sum, yet prompt to pay.
The fragrant incense of his prayer
To heaven went up through yielding air;
Perfumed the throne of God on high,
And calmed offended Majesty.