Isaac Watts, 1707
| 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,
| 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,