1 O sacred head, sore wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, thine only crown:
how art thou pale with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn;
how does that visage languish
which once was bright as morn!
2 Thy grief and bitter passion
were all for sinners' gain;
mine, mine was the transgression,
but thine the cruel pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Saviour,
turn not from me thy face;
but look on me with favour,
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.
4 Be near me when I am dying,
O show thy cross to me;
and for my succour flying,
come, Lord, to set me free.
These eyes, new faith receiving,
from thee shall not remove,
for all who die believing,
die safely through thy love.
