I. Watts

L.M.

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

Forbid, it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the cross of Christ my God:

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.

3

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?

4

His dying crimson, like a robe,

Spreads o’er His body on the tree;

Then am I dead to all the globe,

And all the globe is dead to me.

5

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.