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 a Saviour’s face. The Paschal sacrifice, And blood-besprinkled door, Seen with enlightened eyes, And once applied with power, Would teach the need of other blood, To reconcile the world 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 failing of his own. The scape-goat 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!” Dipt 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 vouchsaf’d to me.