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.
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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.
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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?
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Were the whole realm of nature mine, that were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine, demands my life, my all.
AMEN!