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 mingled down.
did e'er such love and sorrow meet?
or thorns compose so rich a crown?
were the whole realm of nature, that were an offering far too small.
love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul,
my life,
my all.
