O sacred Head, now wounded,
With
grief and shame weighed down,
Now
scornfully surounded
With
thorns, thine only crown:
O
sacred head, what glory,
What
bliss till now was Thine!
Yet,
though despised and gorry,
I
joy to call Thee mine!
2
What
thou, my Lord, has suffered
Was
all for sinners' 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,
Vouch
safe 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 for thee.