When I survey the wondrous cross on which the Prince of glory died, my richest gain I count as loss, and pour contempt on all my pride. Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast, save in the cross of Christ my God: the very 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: When did such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown? His lifeblood, like a crimson robe, clothes all his body on the tree: then I am 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!