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, I sacrifice them through his blood. See from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down. Did ere such love and sorrow meet or thorns compose so rich a crown? Were the whole realm of nature mine that were at present far too small. Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my own. Isaac Watts.

The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. The Lord is good to all, and His mercy is over all that He has made. Psalm 145:8.