Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Of ought but Jesus' cross;
The richest gain, that tempts the most,
I count but sordid dross.

When him I view, who bore, in death,
My sins, upon the tree;
Then am I dead to all the earth,
The earth all dead to me.

Were this whole globe terrestrial mine
The present were but small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my life, my all.