1
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.
2
See, from His head, His hands, His feet, Sorrow and love flow mingled down; Did e'er such love and sorrow met, Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
3
Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an offering far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.