It is a thing most won­der­ful,
Almost too won­derful to be,
That God’s own Son should come from Heav’n,
And die to save a child like me.

And yet I know that it is true;
He chose a poor and hum­ble lot,
And wept, and toiled, and mourned, and died,
For love of those who loved Him not.

I can­not tell how He could love
A child so weak and full of sin;
His love must be most won­der­ful,
If He could die my love to win.

I some­times think about the cross,
And shut my eyes, and try to see
The cru­el nails and crown of thorns,
And Je­sus cru­ci­fied for me.

But ev­en could I see Him die,
I could but see a lit­tle part
Of that great love, which, like a fire,
Is al­ways burn­ing in His heart.

It is most won­der­ful to know
His love for me so free and sure;
But ’tis more won­der­ful to see
My love for Him so faint and poor.

And yet I want to love Thee, Lord;
Oh, light the flame with­in my heart,
And I will love Thee more and more,
Until I see Thee as Thou art.