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When I Survey The Wondrous CrossBy I. Watts (1674-1748)Meter: L.M. WHEN I survey the wondrous cross On which the Lord of glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride. Far be the thought that I should boast, Save in the cross of Christ, my Lord; All the vain things that charm me most, I'd sacrifice them at His word. 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? Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an off'ring far too small; Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my soul, my life, my all!
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