O sacred head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down—

O sacred brow, surrounded

With thorns, thine only crown:

Once on a throne of glory,

Adorned with light divine;

Now all despised and gory,

I joy to call thee mine.

2 On me, as thou art dying,

O, turn thy pitying eye;

To thee for mercy crying,

Before thy cross I lie.

Thine, thine the bitter passion;

Thy pain is all for me;

Mine, mine the deep transgression;

My sins are all on thee.

3 What language can I borrow

To praise thee, heavenly Friend,

For all this dying sorrow,

Of all my woes the end?

O, can I leave thee ever?

Then do not thou leave me;

Lord, let me never, never

Outlive my love to thee.

4 Be near when I am dying;

Then close beside me stand;

Let me, while faint and sighing,

Lean calmly on thy hand:

These eyes, new faith receiving,

From thee shall never move,

For he who dies believing,

Dies safely—in thy love.