1 O sacred head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded with thorns, thine only crown:
O sacred head, what glory, what bliss till now was thine;
yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call thee mine.
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 Savior! ’Tis I deserve thy place;
look on me with Thy favor, and grant to me thy grace.
3 What language shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever; and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee.
|First Line:||O sacred head, now wounded|
|Title:||O Sacred Head, Now Wounded|
|Attributed to:||Bernard of Clairvaux, 12th C.|
|Translator (German):||Paul Gerhardt (1656)|
|Translator (English):||James W. Alexander (1830)|
|Composer:||Hans Leo Hassler (1601)|
|Arranger:||J. S. Bach (1729)|