With solemn joy we sing
justice and grace
from hymnals,
songs about the Omniarch
who liberally lashed
wrath,
pained wages
poured on the Supereminent Son.
Remember that columnated cloud?
That firey firmness that held the beach?
He who opened the seas
now pelted in propitiation,
He flounders like a charioteer.
And down to death
– though not to damned decay –
He went.
There he defeated,
meted sting to,
the bee.
With substitutionary fee
– not mere amnesty –
He bought a remnant
that follows
a lamb now
raised
to life.
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