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David Jones (of Treborth)

The Sacrifice wickedly slain

On Calvary one afternoon,

Did God for atonement ordain,

And He is well pleased in the Son:

His merit no language can tell,

The title of Godhead is His;

No praises can ever excel

The worth of a Saviour like this.

The earth is so little, beside

Creation's unmeasurèd reach--

A small speck of dust undescried,

A drop of the sea on the beach:

But Love wrought its victory here,

A conquest of glory supreme;

And Calvary's accent is clear

Through heaven in each rapturous theme.

Awake! it is time, oh! my soul,

Be strong to forget every pain;

The Church of all nations extol,

The praise of the Lamb that was slain:

The work is so vast in its plan,

Too few are the words of the earth,

Too feeble the talents of man,

To tell the Atonement's full worth.


The Feast of Atonement is nigh,

The world is to share in the feast--

Let all the bright stars of the sky

Be bells of fine gold for the Priest!

His praise let all powers make known--

'He reconciled us unto God!

The Aaron who died to atone,

He liveth, with glory endowed.'

Let all worlds in concert unite

To give the Redeemer His due,

Until their rejoicing delight

Th' eternal dominions of blue:

All space be an ocean of praise,

And waves of harmonious refrain

Surge back over infinite ways

To the shores of creation again!

Oh! sinner, hast thou not a voice

For Him who is Refuge alone!

The angels adoring rejoice

That He for us all did atone:

Their wonder they ever confess,

To think of His death in our room:

But is their astonishment less,

That man should keep silent and dumb?

Awake! to the Lamb be thy song!

Whose debt can be ever so great?

In singing His praises grow strong;

Begin,--'tis already so late!

The song of the white-wingèd quire

Is weak for that triumph of love:

Stand thou in thy part, and aspire

To add to the rapture above.


The angels in singing proclaim,

'Christ Jesus! our Wonder is He:'

But man has much more in the Name--

'Christ Jesus is Life unto me!'

They wonder to think of Him dead--

For thee did He journey that way:

The angels can call Him their Head--

'My Brother' canst thou to Him say?

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