O sacred Head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down
Now scornfully surrounded With thorns,
Thine only crown;
How pale Thou art with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
Verse 2
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered
Was all for sinners’ gain:
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Saviour!
‘Tis I deserve Thy place
Look on me with Thy favor,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
Verse 3
What language shall I borrow To thank
Thee, dearest Friend
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine for ever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never Outlive my love to Thee.
AMEN