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, and 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 tribute far too small; Love so amazing so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all!