When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the King 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 cross 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 flowed mingled down!
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were an offering far to small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Rainsong says: 
laynie says: 
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