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.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the dearh 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 ere such love and sorrow meet?
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
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.

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