WHEN I SURVEY THE WONDEROUS CROSS

When I survey the wonderous 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 the 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 present far too small:
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul,
My life,
My all.

By Isaac Watts