1  When we survey the wondrous cross

    On which the Lord of glory died,

    Our richest gain we count but loss,

    And pour contempt on all our pride.

 2  Our God forbid that we should boast,

    Save in the death of Christ, our Lord;

    All the vain things that charm us most,

    We'd sacrifice them to His blood.

 3  There 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?

 4  His dying crimson, from His head

    Spreads o'er His body on the tree;

    To all the world then am I dead,

    And all the world is dead to me.

 5  Were the whole realm of nature ours,

    That were an offering far too small;

    Love that transcends our highest pow'rs,

    Demands our heart, our life, our all.