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, tho' despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.

2 O noblest brow and dearest,
In other days the world
All feared when Thou appearedst;
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!

3 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.

4 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.

5 Be near when I am dying,
O show Thy cross to me;
And for my succor flying,
Come, Lord, to set me free;
These eyes, new faith receiving,
From Jesus shall not move;
For he who dies believing,
Dies safely, thro' Thy love. Amen.