1 O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, Thine only crown;
how pale Thou art 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 sinner's 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
and grant to me Thy grace.

3 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.