1 When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of Glory dy'd, 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 God; 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 [His dying crimson like a robe Spreads o'er his body on the tree; Then am I dead to all the globe, And all the globe is dead to me.]
5 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.