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;
The vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to his blood.

See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
What grief and love flow mingling 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.

Isaac Watts