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 an offering far too small;
love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.
To Christ, who won for sinners grace
by bitter grief and anguish sore,
be praise from all the ransomed race
for ever and for evermore.