When Ad­am fell, he quick­ly lost
God’s im­age, which he once pos­sessed:
See all our na­ture since could boast
In Cain, his first-born son, ex­pressed!

The sac­ri­fice the Lord or­dained
In type of the Re­deem­er’s blood,
Self-righteous rea­son­ing Cain dis­dained,
And thought his own first-fruits as good.

Yet rage and en­vy filled his mind,
When, with a sull­en, down­cast look,
He saw his bro­ther fa­vor find,
Who God’s ap­point­ed me­thod took.

By Cain’s own hand, good Ab­el died,
Because the Lord ap­proved his faith;
And, when his blood for ven­geance cried,
He vain­ly thought to hide his death.

Such was the wick­ed mur­der­er Cain,
And such by na­ture still are we,
Until by grace we’re born again,
Malicious, blind and proud, as he.

Like him the way of grace we slight,
And in our own de­vic­es trust;
Call ev­il good, and dark­ness light,
And hate and per­se­cute the just.

The saints, in ev­ery age and place,
Have found this his­to­ry ful­filled;
The num­bers all our thoughts sur­pass
Of Ab­els, whom the Cains have killed!

Thus Je­sus fell—but O! His blood
Far bet­ter things than Ab­el’s cries:
Obtains His mur­der­ers peace with God,
And gains them man­sions in the skies.