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
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 favour
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace
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
