WHEN I SURVEY THE CROSS

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 a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine, Demands
my soul, my life, my all!