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 Lord.
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to that cross.
See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down,
N’er did such love and sorrow meet,
Nor thorns compose so rich a crown.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a tribute far too small.
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.