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, 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 bitter passion
Were all for sinners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression,
But thine the deadly pain. A-men.

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,
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love for thee.

4 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 thee shall never move;
For he who dies believing
Dies safely in thy love.

Amen.