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 Thins 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, So Divine, Demands My Soul Shall Have My Soul (Shall Have My Soul) Shall Have My Soul (Shall Have My Soul) My Life, My All.