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When I survey
Isaac Watts
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.
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 too his blood.
His dying crimson like a robe
Hangs o'er his body on the tree,
Then am I dead to all the globe,
And all the globe is dead to me.
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?
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.
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