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