When I Survey The Wondrous Cross

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 rob,
spreads o'er His body on the tree:
then am I dead to all the globe,
and all the globe is dead to me.

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.

Isaac Watts, 1674 - 1748