When we survey the wondrous cross

On which the Lord of glory died,

Our richest gain we count but loss,

And pour contempt on all our pride.

Our God forbid that we should boast,

Save in the death of Christ, our Lord;

All the vain things that charm us most,

We'd sacrifice them to His blood.

There from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flowed mingled down;

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson, from His head

Spreads o'er His body on the tree;

To all the world then am I dead,

And all the world is dead to me.

Were the whole realm of nature ours,

That were an offering far too small;

Love that transcends our highest pow'rs,

Demands our heart, our life, our all.