1 O sacred Head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down
O kingly Head, 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 Saviour!
Turn not from me Thy face;
Look on me with Thy favour,
Vouchsafe to me Thy face.

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;
O may I faithful be!
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to Thee.

4 Be near me, Lord, when dying,
O show Thy face to me;
And, for my succour flying,
Come, Lord, and set me free;
These eyes, new faith receiving,
From Jesus shall not move;
For he who dies believing,
Dies safely in Thy love.