When I survey the wondrous cross on which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain I count but lost, and pour contempt on all my pride
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 a present far too small
Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all