1 When I survey the wondrous cross,
on which the Christ of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
and pour contempt on all my pride.

2 Forbid it, then, that I should boast,
save in the death of Christ, my God;
All the vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to Christ's blood.

3 From sacred head, from hands, and feet,
sorrow and love flow mingled 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 a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.