O sacred Head, sore wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down!

O Kingly Head, surrounded

With thorns, thine only crown!

How pale art thou with anguish,

With sore abuse and scorn!

How does that visage languish,

Which once was bright as morn!

O Lord of life and glory,

What bliss till now was thine!

I read the wondrous story;

I joy to call thee mine.

Thy grief and bitter Passion

Were all for sinners’ gain;

Mine, mine was the transgression,

But thine the deadly pain.

What language shall I borrow

To praise thee, heavenly Friend,

For this thy dying sorrow,

Thy pity without end?

O make me thine for ever,

And, should I fainting be,

Lord, let me never, never

Outlive my love to thee.

Be near me, Lord, when 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 never move;

For he who dies believing

Dies safely through thy love.

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