In priestly robes, blue, gold, and purple, drest,
Up that steep mountain-side his way he wended;
Weeping, the people watched as he ascended
With fearless footsteps to his last, long rest.
At length he reached the cloud-enveloped crest,
By son and brother mournfully attended,
Whose hands removed (his priestly duties ended)
The glorious robes and splendor on his breast.
With that rich dress he saw his son invested,
Then—Israel's priest no more—lay down to die,
And in his grave sublime and lonely rested;
Not like that wondrous priest of ours possessing
`Dyed garments' changeless as His Deity,
For ever living, loving, pleading, blessing.—Richard Wilton
(Num. 20. 27-29; Heb. 7. 23, 24)