1	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.
2	Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,     Save in the death of Christ, my Lord; All the vain things that charm me most,     I sacrifice them to His blood.
3	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?
4	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.
Isaac Watts