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 ere 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.