When I Survey the Wondrous 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 mingling 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 an offering far too small,
Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.