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 mingled down: Did ever such love and sorrow meet, Or thorns compose such rich a crown?

His dying crimson, like a robe, Spreads over his body on the tree, Then I am dead to all the globe, And all the globe is dead to me.

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.