(Isaac Watts) F C F D Gm C F Bb F C7 F C7 When I survey the wondrous cross, on which the Prince of glo- ry died, F C F D Gm C F C7 Dm Gm C F 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 things 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 sould, my life, my all.