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.
1. Forbid it Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the Cross of Christ my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
2. See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down;
Did ever such love and sorrow meet,
or thorns compose so rich a crown?
3. 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.
4. Were the whole realms of nature mine,
that was an offering far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all