L.M. Galatians. vi. 14. 1 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, Save in the death of Christ, my God: All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to his blood.
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, That were a present far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all.
