Christ bears the names of all His saints,
For them death's night He braved,
He holds them on His shoulders strong,
And on His heart engraved.
In all His holiness complete,
They stand without a flaw;
Where wisdom, grace and glory meet,
In love divine, not law.
The blood, which as a Priest He bore
For sinners, was His own.
The incense of His prayers and tears
Now perfumes Heaven's throne.
'Tis here my weary soul finds rest,
Though I am frail the while.
I read my name upon His breast,
Enjoy my Father's smile.
(Ex. 28. 12, 29, 30, 31; Heb. 2. 17; 4. 14, 16)
The race of God's anointed priests shall never pass away;
Before His glorious face they stand, and serve Him night and day.
Though reason raves, and unbelief flows on, a mighty flood,
There are, and shall be to the end, the hidden priests of God,
His chosen souls, their earthly dross consumed in sacred fire;
To God's own heart their hearts ascend in flames of deep desire;
The incense of their worship fills His Temple's holiest place;
Their song with wonder fills the Heavens, the glad new song of grace.—G. Ter Stegen