| 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!
|
| All the vain things that charm me most,
|
| I sacrifice them through 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 were a present far too small.
|
| Love so amazing, so divine,
|
| demands my soul, my life, my all. |