|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.
|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.
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.
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.
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?
To Christ, who won for sinners grace
By bitter grief and anguish sore,
Be praise from all the ransomed race
Forever and forevermore.
Isaac Watts, 1707
When I Survey the Wondrous Cross