1 O Sacred Head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weigh'd 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 How art Thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!
Thy grief and Thy compassion
Were all for sinners' gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But Thine the deadly pain.

3 What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end!
Lord, make me Thine for ever,
Nor let me faithless prove;
Oh, let me never, never
Abuse such dying love!

4 Forbid that I should leave Thee;
O Jesus, leave not me;
By faith I would receive Thee;
Thy blood can make me free;
When strength and comfort languish,
And I must hence depart,
Release me then from anguish,
By Thine own wounded heart.