| When I survey the wondrous cross
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| On which the Prince of glory died,
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| My richest gain I count but loss,
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| And pour contempt on all my pride.
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| Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
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| Save in the death of Christ my God!
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| All the vain things that charm me most,
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| I sacrifice them to His blood.
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| See from His head, His hands, His feet,
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| Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
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| Did e??? |
| er such love and sorrow meet,
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| Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
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| His dying crimson, like a robe,
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| Spreads o??? |
| er His body on the tree;
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| Then I am dead to all the globe,
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| And all the globe is dead to me.
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| Were the whole realm of nature mine,
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| That were a present far too small;
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| Love so amazing, so divine,
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| Demands my soul, my life, my all.
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| To Christ, Who won for sinners grace
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| By bitter grief and anguish sore,
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| Be praise from all the ransomed race
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| Forever and forevermore. |