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 to 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 an offering far too small Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.