When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain I count but loss
And poor contempt on all my pride
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Saving the death of Christ my Lord
Although it be my death
Saying 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
Where the whole realm
Of the world is
Of nature mine
That were a present far too small
Love so amazing
So divine
Demands my soul
My life to be
My life, my all