1 O sacred head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns thine only crown:
how art thou pale with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn,
how does that visage languish,
which once was bright as morn!

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
assist me by thy grace.

3 What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this, thy dying sorrow,
thy mercy without end?
O make me thine forever,
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
outlive my love to thee.