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When I survey the wondrous cross
On which my blessed Saviour died,
All earthly gain I count but loss;
How empty all its show and pride!
I would not seek in earthly bliss
To find a rest apart from thee,
Forgetful of thy sacrifice
Which purchased life and peace for me.
I'm not my own, dear Lord—to thee
My ev'ry pow'r, by right, belongs;
My privilege to serve I see,
God's praise to raise in tuneful songs.
And so beside thy sacrifice,
I would lay down my little all.
'Tis lean and poor, I must confess;
I would that it were not so small.
But then I know thou dost accept
My grateful off'ring unto thee;
For, Lord, 'tis love that doth it prompt,
And love is incense sweet to thee.