dove
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.


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