Jesus, in Thee our eyes be­hold
A thou­sand glo­ries more,
Than all the gems and pol­ished gold
The sons of Aar­on wore.

They first their own burnt of­fer­ings brought,
To purge them­selves from sin;
Thy life was pure with­out a spot,
And all Thy na­ture clean.

Fresh blood as con­stant as the day
Was on their al­tar spilt;
But Thy one of­fer­ing takes away
For ev­er all our guilt.

Their priest­hood ran through se­ver­al hands,
For mor­tal was their race;
Thy ne­ver chang­ing of­fice stands
Eternal as Thy days.

Once in the cir­cuit of a year,
With blood, but not his own,
Aaron with­in the veil ap­pears
Before the gold­en throne:

But Christ, by His own pow­er­ful blood,
Ascends ab­ove the skies,
And in the pre­sence of our God
Shows His own sac­ri­fice.

Jesus, the King of glo­ry, reigns
On Si­on’s heav’n­ly hill;
Looks like a lamb that has been slain,
And wears His priest­hood still.

He ev­er lives to in­ter­cede
Before His Fa­ther’s face:
Give Him, my soul, thy cause to plead,
Nor doubt the Fa­ther’s grace.