When I 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 robe,
Spreads o'er 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 a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Note:
In the first published version in 1707, the second line read: 'Where the young Prince of Glory died'
In the last verse, in the second line, the word 'present' is often changed tp 'off'ring'
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