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 Thins That Charm Me Most
I Sacrifice Them To His Blood.

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
Shall Have My Soul (Shall Have My Soul)
Shall Have My Soul (Shall Have My Soul)
My Life, My All.