When I Survey The Wondrous CrossBy I. Watts (1674-1748)
WHEN I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Lord of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Far be the thought that I should boast,
Save in the cross of Christ, my Lord;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I'd sacrifice them at His word.
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?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were an off'ring far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all!
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When I Survey The Wondrous Cross