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, tho' despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.

2 What language shall I borrow
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this, Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
Oh! make me Thine forever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love to Thee.

3 Be near me when I'm dying,
Oh! show Thy cross to me;
And for my succor flying,
Come, Lord, and set me free;
These eyes, new faith receiving,
From Jesus shall not move;
For he who dies believing,
Dies safely, thru Thy love.