When I Survey the Wondrous Cross

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?

His dy­ing crim­son

like a robe

Spreads o’er His bo­dy on the tree;

Then I am dead to all the globe

And all the globe is dead to me.

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.

To Christ

who won for sin­ners grace

By bit­ter grief and ang­uish sore

Be praise from all the ran­somed race

Forever and for­ev­er­more.