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 fee, sorrow and love flow mingled down;
Did e're 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 diving, demands my sould, demands my soul;
Love demands my soul, my life, my all.