1 O sacred Head! now wounded,
With grief and shame bowed 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!
What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered,
Was 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.

Amen.