|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.
|2||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.
|3||See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingling down:
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
|4||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.
|Isaac Watts, 1674-1748|