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 mine,
That were a off’ring far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.