Born to set Thy people free

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 things that charm me most,

There in the garden of tears

There is no drought here in the desert

You took the fall and thought of me

Beautiful Saviour

That he should give his only Son