When I survey the wonderous cross
on which the prince of glory died
my richest gain, I count but loss
and pour contempt on all my pride.
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.
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?
Were the whole realm of nature mine
that was an offering far too small
love so amazing, so devine
demands my soul, my life, my all.
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