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!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sac­ri­fice them to His blood.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow min­gled down!
Did e’er such love and sor­row meet,
Or thorns com­pose so rich a crown?

His dy­ing crim­son, like a robe,
Spreads o’er His bo­dy on the tree;
Then I am dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.

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.

To Christ, who won for sin­ners grace
By bit­ter grief and ang­uish sore,
Be praise from all the ran­somed race
Forever and for­ev­er­more.