O sacred Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded,

With thorns Thine only crown!

Once reigning in the highest

In light and majesty,

Dishonored now Thou diest,

Yet here I worship Thee.

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.

Lo, here I fall, my Saviour,

’Tis I deserve Thy place:

Look on me with Thy favor,

Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

Receive me, my Redeemer;

My Shepherd, make me Thine,

Of every good the Fountain,

Thou art the Spring of mine!

What language shall I borrow

To thank Thee, dearest Friend,

For this, Thy dying sorrow,

Thy pity without end!

O make me Thine forever,

And should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never,

Outlive my love to Thee.