"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 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, for divine/Demands my soul, my life, my all."
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