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!

2 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 his blood.

3 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?

4 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!