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 death of Christ my God;
The vain delights that charm me most:
I sacrifice them to his blood.
See from his head, his hands, his feet
What grief and love flow mingling down;
Did e'er such Love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were all the realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
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