When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of Glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride.
2. Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, Save in the death of Christ my God: All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His blood,
3. See! from His head, His hands, His feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down ! Did e'er such love and sorrow meet, Or thorns compose so rich a crown ?
4. Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an offering far too small: Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.