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 harm 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 mine
        That were a tribute far too small;
        Love so amazing, so divine,
        Demands my soul, my life, my all.