WHEN I SURVEY THE WONDROUS CROSS
When I survey the wondrous cross,
On which the Lord of glory died;
Our richest gain we count but loss,
And pour contempt on all our pride.
Our God forbid that we should boast,
Save in the death of Christ, our Lord;
All the vain things that charm us most,
We'd sacrifice them to His blood.
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?
His dying crimson, from His head
Spreads o'er His body on the tree;
To all the world then am I dead,
And all the world is dead to Me.
Were the whole realm of nature ours,
That were an offering far too small;
Love that transcends our highest powers,
Demands our heart, our life, our all.
Easter Music Piano Music