Two Lambs: Abraham, Isaac, and the Finished Work of Christ
“Father, stop, where is the lamb to give to God today,
Without its blood our sins are marked, His wrath will still remain”
“Without a lamb to render blood our trip would be in vain,
But trust in God, He will provide the lamb for me to slay”
“Like He provided me to you in your grey hair and age?
The promised son, so lately come, will trust the Lord today.”
The sandy walk, the happy talk, a hill to climb and die,
Lamb unaware, the father’s stare, his God to question why.
A tortured prayer, for God to spare, the apple of his eye,
An altar grim, but made for Him, whom no man can deny.
A guilty tear, the father’s fear, a final desperate cry,
The silent “no” a heavy blow, but what can man reply?
“A sacrifice to God so great should be a happy thing,
And from my youth you’ve smiled upon the sacrifice we bring.
So why the tears and why the frown and why the heavy sigh
Where shall I go to fetch the lamb God promised to provide?”
“My son, my son, my only son, oh how the news I rue,
You are the lamb God wants today, and wheat else can I do?
God gives and takes away, my son, His ways are always just.
Though dark and strange His paths may be, in whom else shall we trust?
You are God’s promised heir to me, born from a barren womb,
Though ashes mark your grave today, He’ll raise you from your tomb.”
“Gird your mind with godly fear and wipe your dampened eyes,
I’ll take the rope and knife today to be your sacrifice.
Before the Lord stand justified, your faith has made you whole,
And as my blood runs down your hands, our God we will extol.”
He binds the hands, the father plans, his only son to kill,
A last farewell, as teardrops fell, from reddened faces spill,
Of sorrowed joy, a man and boy, resigned to God’s good will.
A mighty shout, God’s voice rings out “His blood you shall not spill.
How fitting God should be the one to stop that father’s hand,
To loose the bonds upon the son and to provide a ram,
The substitute to cover sin, to cover not atone,
Another Son, far greater still, would step from heaven’s throne.
A sandy walk, the mocking talk, a hill to climb and die,
Lamb so aware, had chosen there, to sinners justify.
A tortured prayer, for God to spare, those yelling “crucify,”
The cross so grim, but made for Him, whom no man can deny.
The slaughtered Son, Begotten One, a pair of desperate cries,
“Forsaken, why?” The “finished” sigh, and sinners justified.
(c) Nate Brooks 2008